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UNKNOWN TO HISTORY 


A STORY OF THE 

CAPTIVITY OF MARY OF SCOTLAND 


BY 

CHARLOTTE M. YONGE 


Poor 8c«pe-goat of crlmM, where, — ^her part what it may 
Bo tortured, so hunted to die, 

Foul age of deceit and of hate,— on her head 
Least stains of gore-guiltiness lie ; 

To :he hearts of the just her blood from the dust 
Mot in vain for mercy will cry. 

Poor scape-goat of nations and faiths in their strife, 

Bo cruel,— and thou so fair ! 

Poor girl I— so, best, in her misery named,— 

Discrown'd of two kingdoms, and bare ; 

Not first nor last on this one was cast 
The burden that others should share. 

Vition* qf England, by F. T. PaLORAvr 


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PREFACE 


In p. 58 of vol. ii. of the second edition of Miss 
Sti'ickland’s Life of Mary Queen of Scots, or p. 100, 
vol. V. of Burton’s History of Scotland, will be found 
the report on which this tale is founded. 

If circumstances regarding the Queen’s captivity 
and Babington’s plot have been found to be omitted, 
as well as many interesting personages in the suite of 
the captive Queen, it must be remembered that the 
art of the story-teller makes it needful to curtail 
some of the incidents which would render the nar- 
rative too complicated to be interesting to those who 
wish more for a view of noted characters in remark- 
able situations, than for a minute and accurate sifting 
of facts and evideuca 

C. M. YONGH 


February 97, 188$. 




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CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

P40I 

Ihk Little Waif 1 

CHAPTER IL 

Evil Tidings 17 

CHAPTER IIL 

The Captive 33 

CHAPTER IV, 

The Oak and the Oaken Hall , . , , 46 

CHAPTER V. 

The Huckstering Woman , . , , .61 

CHAPTER VL 

The Bewitched Whistle 72 


CHAPTER VIL 


The Blast of the Whistle 


8.1 


CONTENTS. 


viii 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The Key of the Cipher . 

CHAPTER IX. 


Unquiet 

CHAPTER X. 

The Lady Arbell .... 

CHAPTER XL 

Queen Mary’s Presence Chamber . 

CHAPTER XII. 


A Furious Letter .... 

CHAPTER XHL 

Beads and Bracelets 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Monograms .... 

CHAPTER XV. 

Mother and Child . . . 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Peak Cavern .... 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Ebbing Well .... 


PAGB 

97 


. 105 

. 118 

. 126 


. 141 

. 163 

165 


. 178 


. 200 


. 222 


CONTENTS. ix 

CHAPTER XVIIL 

rAoi 

Cis OR Sister 243 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Clash of Swords 266 

CHAPTER XX. 

Wingfield Manor 274 

CHAPTER XXL 


A Tangle 290 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Tutbury , 302 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The Love Token 313 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

A Lioness at Bay .... . . 324 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Paul’s Walk 336 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

In the Web 348 

CHAPTER XXVIL 


The Castle Well . 


i68 


X 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


PAOB 


Hunting down the Deer . . . . 

, . 365 

The Search . 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

. 376 

T^te-I-Tete . 

CHAPTER XXX. 

, . 391 

Evidence 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

. 405 

CHAPTER XXXIL 

Westminster Hall 

. . 413 

In the Tower . 

CHAPTER XXXIIL 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Fotueeinghay 438 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

Before the Commissioners 452 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A Venture 465 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 


My Lady’s Remorse 


474 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
Master Ti lbot and his Charge 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 
The Fetterlock Court . . , , 

CHAPTER XL. 

The Sentence 

CHAPTER XLI. 
Her Royal Highness 

CHAPTER XLII. 
The Supplication .... 

CHAPTER XLIII. 
The Warrant 

CHAPTER XLIV. 
On the Humber .... 

CHAPTER XLV. 


XI 

FAOI! 

. 488 

. 498 

. 607 

. 623 

. 634 

. 648 

662 


Ten Years after 


683 



UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


CHAPTER L 

THE LITTLE WAIF. 

On a spring day, in the year 1568, Mistress Talbot sat 
in her lodging at Hull, an upper chamber, with a large 
latticed window, glazed with the circle and diamond 
leading perpetuated in Dutch pictures, and opening on 
a carved balcony, whence, had she been so minded, she 
could have shaken hands with her opposite neighbour. 
There was a richly carved mantel-piece, with a sea-coal 
fire burning in it, for though it was May, the sea 
winds blew cold, and there was a fishy odour about 
the town, such as it was well to counteract. The floor 
was of slippery polished oak, the walls hung with 
leather, gilded in some places and depending from 
cornices, whose ornaments proved to an initiated eye, 
that this had once been the refectory of a small priory, 
or cell, broken up at the Reformation. 

Of furniture there was not much, only an open 
cupboard, displaying two silver cups and tankards, a 
sauce -pan of the same metal, a few tall, slender, 
Venetian glasses, a little pewter, and some rare shells. 
A few high - backed chairs were ranged against the 
B 


2 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[JHAP. 

wall; there was a tall “ armory,” i.e. a linen-press of dark 
oak, guarded on each side by the twisted weapons of 
the sea unicorn, and in the middle of the room stood 
a large, solid-looking table, adorned with a brown 
earthenware beau-pot, containing a stiff posy of roses, 
southernwood, gillyflowers, pinks and pansies, of 
small dimensions. On hooks, against the wall, hung a 
pair of spurs, a shield, a breastplate, and other pieces 
of armour, with an open helmet bearing the dog, the 
well-known crest of the Talbots of the Shrewsbury line 

On the polished floor, near the window, were a 
child’s cart, a little boat, some whelks and limpets. 
Their owner, a stout boy of three years old, in a tight, 
borderless, round cap, and home-spun, madder-dyed frock, 
lay fast asleep in a big wooden cradle, scarcely large 
enough, however, to contain him, as he lay curled up, 
sucking his thumb, and hugging to his breast the soft 
fragment of a sea-bird’s downy breast. If he stirred, his 
mother’s foot was on the rocker, as she sat spinning, 
but her spindle danced languidly on the floor, as if 
“feeble was her hand, and silly her thread while she 
listened anxiously for every sound in the street below. 
She wore a dark blue dress, with a small lace ruff 
opening in fiont, deep cuffs to match, and a white apron 
likewise edged with lace, and a coif, bent down in the 
centre, over a sweet countenance, matronly, though 
youthful, and now full of wistful expectancy, not 
untinged with anxiety and sorrow. 

Susan Hardwicke was a distant kinswoman of 
the famous Bess of Hardwicke, and had formed one 
of the little court of gentlewomen with 'yhom great 
ladies were wont to surround themselves. There she 
met Eichard Talbot, the second son of a relative of the 
Earl of Shrewsbury, a young man who, with the in- 


THE LITTLE WAIF. 


3 


*.] 

difference of those days to service by land or sea, had 
been at one time a gentleman pensioner of Queen 
Mary ; at another had sailed under some of the great 
mariners of the western main. There he had acquired 
substance enough to make the offer of his hand to the 
dowerless Susan no great imprudence ; and as neither 
could be a subject for ambitious plans, no obstacle 
was raised to their wedding. 

He took his wife home to his old father’s house in 
the precincts of Sheffield Park, where she was kindly 
welcomed ; but wealth did not so abound in the family 
but that, when opportunity offered, he was thankful 
to accept the command of the Mastiff, a vessel com- 
missioned by Queen Elizabeth, but built, manned, and 
maintained at the expense of the Earl of Shrewsbury. 
It formed part of a small squadron which was cruising 
on the eastern coast to watch over the intercourse 
between France and Scotland, whether in the interest 
of the imprisoned Mary, or of the I^ords of the Congre- 
gation. He had obtained lodgings for Mistress Susan 
at Hull, so that he might be with her when he put 
into harbour, and she was expecting him for the first 
time since the loss of their second child, a daughter 
whom he had scarcely seen during her little life of a 
few months. 

Moreover, there had been a sharp storm a few days 
previously, and experience had not hardened her to 
the anxieties of a sailor’s wife. She had been down 
once already to the quay, and learnt all that the old 
sailors could tell her of chances and conjectures ; and 
when her boy began to fret from hunger and weariness, 
she had left her serving- man, Gervas, to watch for 
further tidings. Yet, so does one trouble drive out 
another, that whereas she had a few days ago dreaded 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


4 


[chap. 


the sorrow of his return, she would now have given 
worlds to hear his step. 

Hark, what is that in the street ? Oh, folly ! If 
the Mastiff were in, would not Gervas have long ago 
brought her the tidings ? Should she look over the bal- 
cony only to be disappointed again ? Ah! she had been 
prudent, for the sounds were dying away. Hay, there 
was a foot at the door ! Gervas with ill news ! Ho, 
no, it bounded as never did Gervas’s step 1 It was 
coming up. She started from the chair, quivering with 
eagerness, as the door opened and in hurried her sun- 
tanned sailor I She was in his arms in a trance of 
joy. That was all she knew for a moment, and then, 
it was as if something else were given back to her. 
Ho, it was not a dream ! It was substance. In her 
arms was a little swaddled baby, in her ears its feeble 
wail, mingled with the glad shout of little Humfrey, as 
he scrambled from the cradle to be uplifted in his 
father’s arms. 

“ What is this ?” she asked, gazing at the infant 
between terror and tenderness, as its weak cry and 
exhausted state forcibly recalled the last hours of her 
own child. 

“ It is the only thing we could save from a wreck 
off the Spurn,” said her husband. “ Scottish as I take 
it. The rogues seem to have taken to their boats, 
leaving behind them a poor woman and her child. I 
trust they met their deserts and were swamped. We 
saw the fluttering of her coats as we made for the 
Humber, and I sent Goatley and Jaques in the boat 
to see if anything lived. The poor wench was gone 
before they could lift her up, but the little one 
cried lustily, though it has waxen weaker since. We had 
no milk on board, and could only give it bits of soft 


l] the little waif. 6 

bread soaked in beei; and I misdoubt me whether it 
did not all run out at the corners of its mouth.” 

This was interspersed with little Humfrey’s eager 
outcries that little sister was come again, and Mrs. 
Talbot, the tears running down her cheeks, hastened to 
summon her one woman-servant, Colet, to bring the 
porringer of milk. 

Captain Talbot had only hurried ashore to bring 
the infant, and show himself to his wife. lie was 
forced instantly to return to the wharf, but he pro- 
mised to come back as soon as he should have taken 
order for his men, and for the Mastiff, which had 
suffered considerably in the storm, and would need to 
be refitted. 

Colet hastUy put a manchet of fresh bread, a pasty, 
and a stoup of wine into a basket, and sent it by her 
husband, Gervas, after their master ; and then eagerly 
assisted her mistress in coaxing the infant to swallow 
food, and in removing the soaked swaddling clothes 
which the captain and his crew had not dared to 
meddle with. 

When Captain Talbot returned, as the rays of the 
setting sun glanced high on the roofs and chimneys, 
little Humfrey stood peeping through the tracery of 
the balcony, watching for him, and shrieking with joy 
at the first glimpse of the sea-bird’s feather in his cap. 
The spotless home-spun cloth and the trenchers were 
laid for supper, a festive capon was prepared by the 
choicest skill of Mistress Susan, and the little ship- 
wrecked stranger lay fast asleep in the cradle. 

All was well with it now, Mrs. Talbot said. Nothing 
had ailed it but cold and hunger, and when it had 
been fed, warmed, and dressed, it had fallen sweetly 
asleep in her arms, appeasing her heartache for her 


6 UNKNOWN TO HISTOilY, [ JHAP. 

own little Sue, while Humfrey fully believed that 
father had brought his little sister lack again. 

The child was in truth a girl, apparently three or 
four months old. She had been rolled up in Mrs. 
Talbot’s baby’s clothes, and her own long swaddling 
I lands hung over the back of a chair, where they had 
been dried before the fire. They were of the finest 
woollen below, and cambric above, and the outermost 
were edged with lace, whose quality Mrs. Talbot esti- 
mated very highly. 

“ See,” she added, “ what we found within. A 
Popish relic, is it not ? Colet and Mistress Gale were 
for making away with it at once, but it seemed to me 
that it was a token whereby the poor babe’s friends may 
know her again, if she have any kindred not lost at sea.” 

The token was a small gold cross, of peculiar w^ork- 
manship, with a crystal in the middle, through which 
might be seen some mysterious object neither husband 
nor wife could make out, but which they agreed must 
be carefully preserved for the identification of their 
little waif. Mrs. Talbot also produced a strip of writing 
whicli she had found sewn to the inmost band wrapped 
round the little body, but it had no superscription, and 
sE^' bdieved it to be either French, Latin, or High 
ifiitch, for she could make nothing of it. Indeed, the 
good lady’s education had only included reading, writ- 
ing, needlework and cookery, and she knew no language 
but her own. Her husband had been taught Latin, 
but his acquaintance with modern tongues was of 
the nautical order, and entirely oral and vernacular. 
However, it enabled him to aver that the letter — if 
such it were — was neither Scottish, French, Spanish, 
nor High or Low Dutch. He looked at it in all direc- 
tions, and shmk his head over it. 


THE LITTLE WAIF. 


7 


I.] 

“Who can read it for us?” asked Mrs. Talbot. 
“ Shall we ask Master Heatherthwayte ? he is a scholar, 
and he said he would look in to see how you fared.” 

“At oupper-time, I trow,” said Kichard, rather 
grimly, “ the smell of thy stew will bring him down 
in good time.” 

“ Nay, dear sir, I thought you would be fain to see 
the good man, and he lives but poorly in his garret,” 

“ Scarce while he hath good wives like thee to boil 
his pot for him,” said Eichard, smiling. “Tell me, 
hath he heard aught of this gear ? thou hast not laid 
this scroU before him ?” 

“ No, Colet brought it to me only now, having 
found it when washing the swaddling-bands, stitched 
into one of them.” 

“ Then hark thee, good wife, not one word to him 
of the writing.” 

“Might he not interpret it ?” 

“ Not he ! I must know more about it ere I let it 
pass forth from mine hands, or any strange eye fall 
upon it — Ha, in good time! I hear his step on the stair.” 

The captain hastily rolled up the scroll and put it 
into his pouch, while Mistress Susan felt as if she had 
made a mistake in her hospitality, yet almost as if her 
husband were unjust towards the good man who had 
been such a comfort to her in her sorrow ; but there 
was no lack of cordiality or courtesy in Eichard’s 
manner when, after a short, quick knock, there en- 
tered a figure in hat, cassock, gown, and bands, with a 
{•leasant, though grave countenance, the complexion 
showing that it had been tanned and sunburnt in 
early youth, although it wore later traces of a sedentary 
student life, and, it might be, of less genial living than 
had nourished the up-growth of that sturdily-built frama 


8 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

Master Joseph Heatherthwayte was the greatly 
underpaid curate of a small parish on the outskirts of 
HuU. He contrived to live on some £10 per annum in 
the attic of the house where the Talbots lodged, — and 
not only to live, but to be full of charitable deeds, mostly 
at the expense of his own appetite. The square cut of 
his bands, and the uncompromising roundness of the hat 
which he doffed on his entrance, marked him as inclined 
to the Puritan party, which, being that of apparent pro- 
gress, attracted most of the ardent spirits of the time. 

Captain Talbot’s inclinations did not lie that way, 
but he respected and liked his fellow-lodger, and his 
vexation had been merely the momentary disinclina- 
tion of a man to be interrupted, especially on his first 
evening at home. He responded heartily to Master 
Heatherthwayte’s warm pressure of the hand and 
piously expressed congratulation on his safety, mixed 
with condolence on the grief that had befallen him. 

“And you have been a good friend to my poor 
wife in her sorrow,” said Eichard, “for the which I 
thank you heartily, sir.” 

“Truly, sir, I could have been her scholar, with 
such edifying resignation did she submit to the dis- 
pensation,” returned the clergyman, uttering these long 
words in a broad northern accent which had nothing 
incongruous in it to Eichard’s ears, and taking advan- 
tage of the lady’s absence on “ hospitable tasks intent ” 
to speak in her praise. 

Little Humfrey, on his father’s knee, comprehend- 
ing that they were speaking of the recent sorrow, put 
in his piece of information that “ father had brought 
little sister back from the sea.” 

“ Ah, child !” said Master Heatherthwayte, in the 
ponderous tone of one unused to children, “thou hast 


t] THE LITTLE WAIP. d 

yet to learn the words of the holy David, ‘ 1 shall go 
to him, but he shall not return to me.’ ” 

“ Bring not that thought forward. Master Heather- 
thwayte,” said Eichard, “ I am well pleased that my 
poor wife and this little lad can take the poor little 
one as a solace sent them by God, as she assuredly is.” 

“Mean you, then, to adopt her into your family ?” 
asked the minister. 

“We know not if she hath any kin,” said Eichard, 
and at that moment Susan entered, followed by the 
man and maid, each bearing a portion of the meal, 
which was consumed by the captain and the clergy- 
man as thoroughly hungry men eat ; and there was 
silence till the capon’s bones were bare and two large 
tankards had been filled with Xeres sack, captured in a 
Spanish ship, “ the only good thing that ever came 
from Spain,” quoth the sailor. 

Then he began to tell how he had weathered the 
storm on the Berwickshire coast; but he was inter- 
rupted by another knock, followed by the entrance of 
a small, pale, spare man, with the lightest possible 
hair, very short, and almost invisible eyebrows ; he 
had a round ruff round his neck, and a black, scholarly 
gown, belted round his waist with a girdle, in which 
he carried writing tools. 

“ Ha, Cuthbert Langston, art thou there ? ” said the 
captain, rising. “ Thou art kindly welcome. Sit down 
and crush a cup of sack with Master Heatherthwayte 
and me.” 

“ Thanks, cousin,” returned the visitor, “ I heard 
that the Mastiff was come in, and I came to see 
whether all was well.” 

“ It was kindly done, lad,” said Eichard, while the 
others did their part of the welcome, though scarcely 


10 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CHA>. 

SO willingly. Cuthbert Langston was a distant relation 
on the mother’s side of Eichard, a young scholar who, 
after his education at Oxford, had gone abroad with a 
nobleman’s son as his pupil, and on his return, instead 
of taking Holy Orders, as was expected, had obtained 
employment in a merchant’s counting-house at Hull, 
for which his knowledge of languages eminently fitted 
him. Though he possessed none of the noble blood of 
the Talbots, the employment was thought by Mistress 
Susan somewhat derogatory to the family dignity, and 
there was a strong suspicion both in her mind and 
that of Master Heatherthwayte that his change of 
purpose was due to the change of religion in England, 
although he was a perfectly regular church - goer. 
Captain Talbot, however, laughed at all this, and, 
though he had not much in common with his kinsman, 
always treated him in a cousinly fashion. He too had 
lieard a rumour of the foundling, and made inquiry for 
it, upon which Eichard told his story in greater detail, 
and his wife asked what the poor mother was like. 

“ I saw her not,” he answered, “ but Goatley 
thought the poor woman to whom she was bound 
more like to be nurse than mother, judging by her 
years and her garments.” 

“ The mother may have been washed off before,” said 
Susan, lifting the little one from the cradle, and hushing 
it. “Weep not, poor babe, thou hast found a mother here.” 

“ Saw you no sign of the crew ? ” asked Master 
Heatherthwayte. 

"None at all. The vessel I knew of old as the 
brig Bride of Dunbar, one of the craft that ply between 
Dumbarton and the French ports.” 

“And how think you? Were none like to be saved?” 

“ I mean to ride along the coast to-moirow, to see 


THE LITTLE WAIF. 


11 


I.] 

V’’'^r6tlier aught can be heard of them, but even if their 
boats could live in such a sea, they would have evil 
hap among the wreckers if they came ashore. I would 
not desire to be a shipwrecked man in these parts, and 
if I had a Scottish or a French tongue in my head so 
much the worse for me.” 

“ Ah, Master Heatherthwayte,” said Susan, " should 
not a man give up the sea when he is a husband and 
father ? ” 

“ Tush, dame ! With God’s blessing the good ship 
Mastiff will ride out many another such gale. Tell 
thy mother, little Numpy, that an English sailor is 
worth a dozen French or Scottish lubbers.” 

“ Sir,” said Master Heatherthwayte, “ the pious trust 
of the former part of your discourse is contradicted by 
the boast of the latter end.” 

“ Nay, Sir Minister, what doth a sailor put his trust 
in but his God foremost, and then his good ship and 
his brave men ?” 

It should be observed that all the three men wore 
their hats, and each made a reverent gesture of touch- 
ing them. The clergyman seemed satisfied by the 
answer, and presently added that it would be well, if 
Master and Mistress Talbot meant to adopt the child, 
that she should be baptized. 

“ How now ?” said Eichard, " we aie not so near any 
coast of Turks or Infidels that we should deem her 
sprung of heathen folk.” 

“Assuredly not,” said Cuthbert Langston, whose 
quick, Eght-coloured eyes had spied the reliquary in 
Mistress Susan’s work-basket, “ if this belongs to her. 
By your leave, kinswoman,” and he lifted it in his hand 
with evident veneration, and began examining it. 

“ It is Babylonish gold, an accursed thing ! ” ex- 


tJNOOWN TO fllSTOftY. 


12 


[CttAf. 


claimed Master Heatherthwayte. “Beware, Master 
Talbot, and cast it from thee.” 

“ Nay,” said Eichard, “ that shall I not do. It may 
lead to the discovery of the child’s kindred. Why, 
my master, what harm think you it will do to us in 
my dame’s casket ? Or what right have we to make 
away with the little one’s property ?” 

His common sense was equally far removed from 
the horror of the one visitor as from the reverence of 
the other, and so it pleased neither. Master Langston 
was the first to speak, observing that the relic made it 
evident that the child must have been baptized. 

“ A Popish baptism,” said Master Heatherthwayte, 
“ with chrism and taper and words and gestures to 
destroy the pure simphcity of the sacrament.” 

Controversy here seemed to be setting in, and the 
infant cause of it here setting up a cry, Susan escaped 
under pretext of putting Humfrey to bed in the next 
room, and carried off both the little ones. The con- 
versation then fell upon the voyage, and the captain 
described the impregnable aspect of the castle of 
Dumbarton, which was held for Queen Mary by her 
faithful partisan. Lord Flemyng. On this, Cuthbert 
Langston asked whether he had heard any tidings of 
the imprisoned Queen, and he answered that it was re- 
ported at Leith that she had well-nigh escaped fromLoch- 
leven, in the disguise of a lavender or washerwoman. 
She was actually in the boat, and about to cross the lake, 
when a rude oarsman attempted to pull aside her muffler, 
and the whiteness of the hand she raised in self-protec- 
tion betrayed her, so that she was carried back. “ If she 
had reached Dumbarton,” he said, “ she might have 
mocked at the Lords of the Congregation. Nay, she 
might liave been in that very brig, whose wreck I beheld.” 


THE LITTLE WAIF. 


13 


t] 

“And well would it have been for Scotland and 
England had it been the will of Heaven that so it 
should fall out,” observed the Puritan. 

“ Or it may be,” said the merchant, “ that the poor 
lady’s escape was frustrated by Providence, that she 
might be saved from the rocks of the Spurn.” 

“ The poor lady, truly ! Say rather the murtheress,” 
quoth Heatherthwayte. 

“ Say rather the victim and scapegoat of other 
men’s plots,” protested Langston. 

“ Come, come, sirs,” says Talbot, “ we’ll have no 
high words here on what Heaven only knoweth. Poor 
lady she is, in all sooth, if sackless ; poorer still if 
guilty ; so I know not what matter there is for falling 
out about. In any sort, I will not have it at my 
table.” He spoke with the authority of the captain of a 
ship, and the two visitors, scarce knowing it, submitted 
to his decision of manner’ but the harmony of the even- 
ing seemed ended. Cuthbert Langston soon rose to bid 
good-night, first asking his cousin at what hour he 
proposed to set forth for the Spurn, to which Eichard 
briefly replied that it depended on what had to be 
done as to the repairs of the ship. 

The clergyman tarried behind him to say, “Master Tal- 
bot, I marvel that so godly a man as you have ever been 
should be willing to harbour one so popishly affected, 
and whom many suspect of being a seminary priest.” 

“Master Heatherthwayte,” returned the captain, 
“ my kinsman is my kinsman, and my house is my 
house. No offence, sir, but I brook not meddling.” 

The clergyman protested that no offence was in- 
tended, only caution, and betook himself to his own 
bare chamber, high above. No sooner was he gone 
than Captain Talbot again became absorbed in the 


14 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


endeavour to spell out the mystery of the scroll, with 
bis elbows on the table aud his hands over his ears, nor 
did he look up till he was touched by his wife, when 
he uttered an impatient demand what she wanted now. 

She had the little waif in her arms undressed, and 
with only a woollen coverlet loosely wrapped round 
her, and without speaking she pointed to the little 



where two marks 


shoulder-blades. 


had been indelibly made — on one side the crowned 
monogram of the Blessed Virgin, on the other a device 



like the Labarum, 


only that the up- 


right was surmounted by a Jieur-de-lis,. 

Eichard Talbot gave a sort of perplexed grunt of 
annoyance to acknowledge that he saw them. 

“ Poor little maid ! how could they be so cruel ? 
They have been branded with a hot iron,” said the 
lady. 

“ They that parted from her meant to know her 
again,” returned Talbot. 

“ Surely they are Popish marks,” added Mistress 
Susan. 

“ Look you here. Dame Sue, I know you for a dis- 


l] the little waif. 15 

creet woman. Keep this gear to yourself, both the 
letter and the marks. Who hath seen them ? ” 

“ I doubt me whether even Colet has seen this mark.” 

“ That is well. Keep all out of sight. Many a 
man has been brought into trouble for a less matter 
swelled by prating tongues.” 

“ Have you made it out ? ” 

“ Hot I. It may be only the child’s horoscope, or 
some old wife’s charm that is here sewn up, and these 
marks may be naught but some sailor’s freak ; but, on 
the other hand, they may be concerned with perilous 
matter, so the less said the better.” 

“ Should they not be shown to my lord, or to her 
Grace’s Council ? ” 

“ I’m not going to run my head into trouble for mak- 
ing a coH about what may be naught. That’s what 
befell honest Mark Walton. He thought he bad seized 
matter of State, and went up to Master Walsingham, 
swelling like an Indian turkey-cock, with his secret 
letters, and behold they turned out to be a Dutch fish- 
wife’s charm to bring the herrings. I can tell you he 
has rued the work he made about it ever since. On the 
other hand, let it get abroad through yonder prating fel- 
low, Heatherthwayte, or any other, that Master Richard 
Talbot had in his house a child with, I know not what 
Popish tokens, and a scroll in an unknown tongue, and 
I should be had up in gyves for suspicion of treason, 
or may be harbouring the Prince of Scotland himself, 
when it is only some poor Scottish archer’s babe.” 

“ You would not have me part with the poor little 
one ? ” 

“ Am I a Turk or a Pagan ? Ho. Only hold thy 
peace, as I shall hold mine, until such time as I can 
meet some one whon I can trust to read this riddla 


1C 


tmKNoWN To ttlsTORY. 


[chat. 

Tell mo — what like is the child ? Wouldst guess it 
to be of gentle, or of clownish blood, if women can tell 
such things ? ” 

" Of gentle blood, assuredly,” cried the lady, so that 
he smiled and said, “ I might have known that so thou 
wouldst answer.” 

“ Nay, but see her little hands and fingers, and the 
mould of her dainty limbs. No Scottish fisher clown 
was her father, I dare be sworn. Her skin is as fair 
and fine as my Humfrey’s, and moreover she has 
always been in hands that knew how a babe should be 
tended. Any woman can tell you that ! ” 

“ And what like is she in your woman’s eyes ? 
What complexion doth she promise ? ” 

“ Her hair, what she has of it, is dark ; her eyes — 
bless them — are of a deep blue, or purple, such as 
most babes have till they take their true tint. There 
is no guessing, Humfrey’s eyes were once like to be 
brown, now are they as blue as thine own.” 

“ I understand all that,” said Captain Talbot, smil- 
ing. “ If she have kindred, they will know her better 
by the sign manual on her tender flesh than by her face.” 

“And who are they?” 

“ Who are they ?” echoed the captain, rolling up 
the scroll in despair. “ Here, take it, Susan, and keep 
it safe from all eyes. Whatever it may be, it may 
serve thereafter to prove her true name. And above 
all, not a word or breath to Heatherthwayte, or any 
of thy gossips, wear they coif or bands.” 

“ Ah, sir ! that you will mistrust the good man.” 

“I said not I mistrust any one; only that I will 
have no word of all this go forth ! Not one ! Thou 
heedest me, wife?” 

“ Verily I do, sir ; I will be mute.” 


SVIL TIDINGS. 


17 


a] 


CHAPTER 11. 

IVIL TIDINGS. 

A •-'IK giving orders for the repairs of the Mastiff, and 
tl a disposal of her crew, Master Richard Talbot pur- 
veyed himself of a horse at the hostel, and set forth 
for Spurn Head to make inquiries along the coast 
respecting the wreck of the Bride of Dunbar, and he was 
joined by Cuthbert Langston, who said his house had 
had dealings with her owners, and that he must ascer- 
tain the fate of her wares. His good lady remained 
in charge of the mysterious little waif, over whom her 
tender heart yeained more and more, while her little 
boy hovered about in serene contemplation of the 
treasure he thought he had recovered. To him the 
babe seemed really his little sister ; to his mother, if 
she sometimes awakened pangs of keen regret, yet she 
filled up much of the dreary void of the last few weeks. 

Mrs. Talbot was a quiet, reserved woman, not prone 
to gadding abroad, and she had made few acquaintances 
during her sojourn at Hull; but every creature she 
knew, or might have known, seemed to her to drop in 
that day, and bring at least two friends to inspect the 
orphan of the wreck, and demand all particulars. 

The little girl was clad in the swaddling garments 
of Mrs. Talbot’s own ’ children, and the mysteriouj 
c 


18 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

marks were suspected by no one, far less the letter 
which Susan, for security’s sake, had locked up in 
her nearly empty, steel-bound, money casket. The 
opinions of the gossips varied, some thinking the babe 
might belong to some of the Queen of Scotland’s party 
fleeing to France, others fathering her on the refugees 
from the persecutions in Flanders, a third party believ- 
ing her a mere fisherman’s child, and one lean, lantern- 
jawed old crone, Mistress Eotherford, observing, “Take 
my word, Mr^!^’‘Talbot, and keep her not with you. 
They that are cast" up by the sea never bring good 
with them.” 

The court of female inquiry was still sitting when 
a heavy tread was heard, and Colet announced “ a 
sei‘ving-man from Bridgefield had ridden post haste to 
speak with madam,” and the messenger, booted and 
spurred, with the mastiff badge on his sleeve, and the 
hat he held in his hand, followed closely. 

“What news, Nathanael?” she asked, as she re- 
sponded to his greeting. 

“ lU enough news, mistress,” was the answer. 
“ Master Eichard’s ship be in, they tell me.” 

“Yea, but he is rid out to make inquiry for a 
wreck,” said the lady. “Is aU well with my good 
father-in-law ?” 

“ He ails less in body than in mind, so please you. 
Beiug that Master Humfrey was thrown by Blackfoot, 
the beast being scared ly a flash of lightning, and 
never spoke again.” 

“ Master Humfrey !” 

“■ Ay, mistress. Pitched on his head against the 
south gate-post. I saw how it was with him when we 
took him up, and he never so much as lifted an eyelid, 
but died at the turn of the night. Heaven rest bis soul 1” 


£ 1 .] 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


19 


“ Heaven rest his soul !” echoed Susan, and the 
ladies around chimed in. They had come for cne excite- 
ment, and here was another, 

“Thi;re! See but what I said!” quoth Mrs. 
Itotherfcrd, uplifting a skinny finger to emphasise 
that the poor little flotsome had already brought evil. 

“ Nay,” said the portly wife of a merchant, “ begging 
your pardon, this may be a fat instead of a lean sorrow. 
Leaves the poor gentleman heirs, Mrs. Talbot ? ” 

“ Oh no I” said Susan, with tears in li^ eyes. “ His 
wife died two years back, and her chrisom babe with 
her. He loved her too well to turn his minck to wed 
again, and now he is with her for aye,” A^^d she 
covered her face and sobbed, regardless of the congratu- 
lations of the merchant’s wife, and exclaiming, “ Oh I 
the poor old lady 1” 

“ In sooth, mistress,” said Nathanael, who had stood 
all this time as if he had by no means emptied his 
budget of ill news, “ poor old madam fell down all of 
a heap on the floor, and when the wenches lifted her, 
they found she was stricken with the dead palsy, and 
she has not spoken, and there’s no one knows what to 
do, for the poor old squire is like one distraught, sit- 
ting by her bed like an image on a monument, with 
the tears flowing down his old cheeks. ‘ But,’ says he 
to me, ‘get you to Hull, Nat, and take madam’s 
palfrey and a couple of sumpter beasts, and bring my 
good daughter Talbot back with you as fast as she and 
the babes may brook.’ I made bold to say, ‘And 
Master Eichard, your worship ?’ then he groaned 
somewhat, and said, ‘ If my son’s ship be come in, he 
must do as her Grace’s service permits, but meantime 
he must spare us his wife, for she is sorely needed 
here.' And he looked at the bed so as it would break 


20 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

your heart to see, for since old Nurse Tooke hath been 
doited, there’s not been a wench about the house that 
can do a hand’s turn for a sick body.” 

Susan knew this was true, for her mother-in-law 
had been one of those bustling, managing housewives, 
who prefer doing everything themselves to training 
others, and she was appalled at the idea of the prob- 
able desolation and helplessness of the bereaved 
household. 

It was far too late to start that day, even had her 
husband been at home, for the horses sent for her had 
to rest. The visitors would fain have extracted some 
more particulars about the old squire’s age, his kindred 
to the great Earl, and the amount of estate to which 
her husband had become heir. There were those 
among them who could not understand Susan’s genuine 
grief, and there were others whose consolations were no 
less distressing to one of her reserved character. She 
made brief answer that the squire was threescore and 
fifteen years old, his wife nigh about his age ; that her 
husband was now their only child ; that he was 
descended from a son of the great Earl John, killed at 
the Bridge of Chatillon; that he held the estate of 
Bridgefield in fief on tenure of military service to the 
head of his family. She did not know how much it 
was worth by the year, but she must pray the good 
ladies to excuse her, as she had many preparations to 
make. Volunteers to assist her in packing her mails 
were made, but she declined them all, and rejoiced 
when left alone with Colet to arrange for what would 
be probably her final departure from Hull. 

It was a blow to find that she must part from her 
servant- woman, who, as 'well as her husband Gervas, was 
a native of Hull. Not only were they both unwilling 


II.] 


EVlfj ?'VUINGa 


2 ] 


to leave, but the inland country was to their imagination 
a wild unexplored desert. Indeed, Colet had only 
entered Mrs. Talbot’s service to supply the place of a 
maid who had sickened with fever and ague, and had 
to be sent back to her native Hallamshire. 

Ere long Mr. Heatherthwayte came down to offer 
his consolation, and still more his advice, that the little 
foundling should be at once baptized— conditionally, if 
the lady preferred it. 

The Eeformed of imperfect theological training, and 
as such Joseph Heatherthwayte must be classed, were 
apt to view the ceremonial of the old baptismal form, 
symbolical and beautiful as it was, as almost destroy- 
ing the efficacy of the rite. Moreover, there was a 
further impression that the Church by which the child 
was baptized, had a right to bring it up, and thus the 
clergyman was urgent with the lady that she should 
seize this opportunity for the little one’s baptism. 

“Hot without my husband’s consent and know- 
ledge,” she said resolutely. 

“ Master Talbot is a good man, but somewhat care- 
less of sound doctrine, as be the most of seafaring 
men.” 

Susan had been a little nettled by her husband’s 
implied belief that she was influenced by the minister, 
so there was double resolution, as well as some offence 
in her reply, that she knew her duty as a wife too well 
to consent to such a thing without him. As to his 
being careless, he was a true and God-fearing man, and 
Mr. Heatherthwayte should know better than to speak 
thus of him to his wife. 

Mr. Heatherthwayte’s real piety and goodness had 
made him a great comfort to Susan in her lonely grief, 
but he had not the delicate tact of gentle blood, and 


22 ONKNOWN TO HISTOBT. [CHAI*. 

had not known where to stop, and as he stood half 
apologising and half exhorting, she felt that her Eichard 
was quite right, and that he could be both meddling 
and presuming. He was exceedingly in the way ol’ 
her packing too, and she was at her wit’s end to get rid 
of him, when suddenly Humfrey managed to pinch his 
fingers in a box, and set up such a yell, as, seconded by 
the frightened baby, was more than any masculine ears 
could endure, and drove Master Heatherthwayte to 
beat a retreat. 

Mistress Susan was well on in her work when her 
husband returned, and as she expected, was greatly 
overcome by the tidings of his brother’s death. He 
closely questioned Nathanael on every detail, and could 
think of nothing but the happy days he had shared 
with his brother, and of the grief of his parents. He 
approved of all that his wife had done ; and as the 
damage sustained by the Mastiff could not be repaired 
under a month, he had no doubt about leaving his crew 
in the charge of his lieutenant while he took his family 
home. 

So busy were both, and so full of needful cares, the 
one in giving up her lodging, the other in leaving his 
men, that it was impossible to inquire into the result 
of his researches, for the captain was in that mood of 
suppressed grief and vehement haste in which irrele- 
vant inquiry is perfectly unbearable. 

It was not till late in the evening that Eichard 
told his wife of his want of success in his investiga- 
tions. ^ He had found witnesses of the destruction of 
the ship, but he did not give them full credit. “ The 
fellows say the ship drove on the rock, and that they 
saw her boats go down with every soul on board, and 
that they would not lie to an officer of her Grace. 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


23 


ri.] 

Heaven pardon me if I do them injustice in believing 
they would lie to him sooner than to any one else. 
They are rogues enough to take good care that no poor 
wretch should survive even if he did chance to come 
to land.” 

“ Then if there be no one to claim her, we may 
bring up as our own the sweet babe whom Heaven 
hath sent us.” 

“ Not so fast, dame. Thou v^ert wont to be more 
discreet. I said not so, but for the nonce, till I can 
come by the rights of that scroll, there’s no need to 
make a coil. Let no one know of it, or of the trinket 
— Thou hast them safe ? ’ 

“ Laid up with the Indian gold chain, thy wedding 
gift, dear sir.” 

“ ’Tis well. My mother ! — ah me,” he added, 
catching himself up; “ little like is she to ask questions, 
poor soul.” 

Then Susan diffidently told of Master Heather- 
thwayte’s earnest wish to christen the child, and, what 
certainly biassed her a good deal, the suggestion that 
this would secure her to their own religion. 

“ There is something in that,” said Richard, 
“ specially after what Cuthbert said as to the golden 
toy yonder. If times changed again — which Heaven 
forfend — that fellow might give us trouble about the 
matter.” 

“ You doubt him then, sir !” she asked. 

“ I relished not his ways on our ride to-day,” said 
Ilichard. “ Sure I ara_ that he had some secret cause 
fur being so curious about the wreck. I suspect him 
of some secret commerce with the Queen of Scots’ folk.” 

“ Yet you were on his side against Mr. Heatlier- 
ihwayte,” said Susan. 


24 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[chap. 

“ I would not have my kinsman browbeaten at 
mine own table by the self-conceited sou of a dalesman, 
even if he have got a round liat and Geneva band ! 
Ah, well ! one good thing is we shall leave both oi 
them well behind us, though I would it were for 
another cause.” 

Something in the remonstrance had, however, so 
worked on liichard Talbot, that before morning he 
declared that, hap what hap, if he and his wife were to 
bring up the child, she sliould be made a good Pro- 
testant Christian before they left the house, and there 
should be no more ado about it. 

It was altogether illogical and untheological ; but 
Master Heatherthwayte was delighted when in the 
very early morning his devotions were interrupted, and 
he was summoned by the captain himself to christen 
the child. 

Kichard and his wife were sponsors, but the ques- 
tion of name had never occurred to any one. However, 
in the pause of perplexity, when the response lagged 
to “ Name this child,” little Humfrey, a delighted 
spectator, broke out again with “ Little Sis.” 

And forthwith, “ Cicely, if thou art not already 
baptized,” was uttered over tlie child, and Cicely be- 
came her name. It cost Susan a pang, as it had 'been 
that of her own little daughter, but it was too late to 
object, and she uttered no regret, but took the child to 
her heart, as sent instead of her who had been taken 
from her. 

Master Heatherthwayte bade them good speed, and 
Master Langston stood at the door of his office and 
waved them a farewell, both alike unconscious of the 
rejoicing with which they were left behind. Mistress 
Talbot rode on the palfrey sent for her use, with the 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


25 


£L] 

little stranger slung to her neck for security’s sake. 
Her boy rode “a cock-horse” before his father, but 
a resting-place was provided for him on a sort of 
pannier on one of the sumpter beasts. What these 
animals could not carry of the household stuff was left 
in Colet’s charge to be despatched by carriers ; and the 
travellers jogged slowly on through deep Yorkshire 
lanes, often halting to refresh the horses and supply 
the wants of the little children at homely wayside inns, 
their entrance usually garnished with an archway 
formed of the jawbones of whales, which often served 
for gate-posts in that eastern part of Yorkshire. And 
thus they journeyed, with frequent halts, until they 
came to the Derbyshire borders. 

Bridgefield House stood on the top of a steep slope 
leading to. the river Dun, with a high arched bridge 
and a mill below it. From the bridge proceeded oiia 
of the magnificent avenues of oak-trees which led up 
to the lordly lodge, full four miles off, right across 
Sheffield Park. 

The Bridgefield estate had been a younger son’s 
portion, and its owners had always been regarded as 
gentlemen retainers of the head of their name, the Earl 
of Shrewsbury. Tudor jealousy had forbidden the 
marshalling of such a mein^ as the old feudal lords 
had loved to assemble, and each generation of the 
Bridgefield Talbots had become more independent than 
the former one. The father had spent his younger 
days as esquire to the late Earl, but had since becomr 
a justice of the peace, and took rank with the substan- 
tial landowners of the country. Humfrey, his eldest 
sou, had been a gentleman pensioner of the Queen till 
his marriage, and Eichard, though beginning his career 
as page to the present Earl’s first wife, had likewise 


26 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

entered the service of her Majesty, though still it was 
iiiiderstood tliat the head of their name had a claim to 
their immediate service, and had he been called to 
take up arms, they 'would have been the first to follow 
his banner. Indeed, a pair of spurs was all the annual 
rent they paid for tlieir estate, which they held on 
this tenure, as well as on paying the heriard horse 
on the death of the head of the family, and other con- 
tributions to their lord’s splendour when he knighted 
his son or married his daughter. In fact, they stood 
on the borderland of that feudal retainership wdiich 
was being rapidly extinguished. The estate, carved 
out of the great Sheffield property, was sufficient to 
maintain the owner in the dignities of an English 
gentleman, and to portion off the daughters, provided 
that the superfluous sons shifted for themselves, as 
Eichard had hitherto done. The house had been 
ruined in the time of the Wars of the Eoses, and re- 
built in the later fashion, with a friendly-looking front, 
containing two large windows, and a porch projecting 
between them. The hall reached to the top of the 
house, and had a waggon ceiling, with mastiffs alternat- 
ing with roses on portcullises at the intersections of 
the timbers. This was the family sitting and dining 
room, and had a huge chimney never devoid of a wood 
fire. One end had a buttery-hatch communicating 
with the kitchen and offices; at the other was a small 
room, sacred to the master of the house, niched under 
the broad staircase that led to the upper rooms, which 
opened on a gallery running round three sides of the 
hall. 

Outside, on the southern side of the house, was a 
garden of potherbs, with the green walks edged by a 
few bright flowers for beau-pots and posies. This had 


EVIL TIDINGS 


27 


a] 

stone walls separating it from the paddock, which 
sloped down to the river, and was a good deal broken 
hy ivy-covered rocks. Adjoining the stables were farm- 
buildings and barns, for there were several fields for 
tillage along the river -side, and the mill and two 
more farms were the property of the Bridgefield squire, 
so that the inheritance was a very fair one, wedged in, 
as it were, between the river and the great Chase of 
Sheffield, up whose stately avenue the riding party 
looked as they crossed the bridge, Eichard having 
become more silent than ever as he came among the 
familiar rocks and trees of his boyhood, and knew he 
should not meet that hearty welcome from his brother 
which had never hitherto failed to greet his return. 
The house had that strange air of forlornness which 
seems to proclaim sorrow within. The great court 
doors stood open, and a big, rough deer-hound, at the 
sound of the approaching hoofs, rose slowly up, and 
began a series of long, deep-mouthed barks, with pauses 
between, sounding like a knell. One or two men and 
maids ran out at the sound, and as the travellers rode 
up to the horse-block, an old gray-bearded serving-man 
came stumbling forth with “ Oh ! Master Diccon, woe 
worth the day !” 

“How does my mother?” asked Eichard, as he 
sprang off and set his boy on his feet. 

“No worse, sir, but she hath not yet spoken a word 
— back. Thunder — ah ! sir, the poor dog knows yon.” 

For the great hound had sprung up to Eichard in 
eager greeting, but then, as soon as he heard his voice, 
the creature drooped his ears and tail, and instead of 
continuing his demonstrations of joy, stood quietly by, 
only now and then poking his long, rough nose into 
Kichard’s hand, knowing as well as pofsible that 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


28 


[chat 


tlioiigh not his dear lOst master, he was the next 
thing ! 

Mistress Susan and the infant were lifted down — 
a hurried question and answer assured them that, the 
funeral was over yesterday. My Lady Countess had 
come down and would have it so; my lord was at 
Court, and Sir Gilbert and his brothers had been 
present, but the old servants thought it hard that none 
nearer in blood should be there to lay tlieir young 
squire in his grave, nor to support his father, who. 
poor old man, had tottered, and been so like to swoon 
as he passed the hall door, that Sir Gilbert and old 
Diggory could but help him back again, fearing lest 
he, too, might have a stroke. 

It was a great grief to Eichard, who had longed to 
look on his brother’s face again, but he could say 
nothing, only he gave one hand to his wife and the 
other to his son, and led them into the hall, which was 
in an indescribable state of confusion. The trestles 
which had supported the coffin were still at one end of 
the room, the long tables were still covered with cloths, 
trenchers, knives, cups, and the remains of the funeral 
baked meats, and there were overthrown tankards and 
stains of wine on the cloth, as though, whatever else 
were lacking, the Talbot retainers had not missed their 
revel. 

One of the dishevelled rough-looking maidens began 
some hurried muttering about being so distraught, and 
not looking for madam so early, but Susan could not 
listen to her, and merely putting the babe into her 
arms, came with her husband up the stairs, leaving 
little Humfrey with Nathanael. 

Eichard knocked at the bedroom door, and, receivina * 
no answer, opened it There in the tapestry -hung 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


29 


IL] 

chamber was the huge old bedstead with its solid posts. 
In it lay something motionless, hiit the first thing 
the husband and wife saw was the bent head which 
was lifted up by the burly but broken figure in the 
chair beside it. 

The two knotted old hands clasped the arms of the 
chair, and the squire prepared to rise, his lip trembling 
under his white beard, and emotion working in his 
dejected features. They were beforehand with him. 
Ere he could rise both were on their knees before him, 
while Richard in a broken voice cried, “ Father, O 
father !” 

“ Thank God that thou art come, my son,” said the 
old man, laying his hands on his shoulders, with a 
gleam of joy, for as they afterwards knew, he had 
sorely feared for Richard’s ship in the storm that had 
caused Humfrey’s death. “ I looked for thee, my 
daughter,” he added, stretching out one hand to Susan, 
who kissed it. “ Now it may go better with her ! 
Speak to thy mother, Richard, she may know thy 
voice.” 

Alas ! no ; the recently active, ready old lady was 
utterly stricken, and as yet held in the deadly grasp 
of paralysis, unconscious of all that passed around her. 

Susan found herself obliged at once to take up 
the reins, and become head nurse and housekeeper. 
The old squire trusted implicitly to her, and helplessly 
put the keys into her hands, and the serving-men and 
maids, in some shame at the condition in which the 
hall liad been found, bestirred themselves to set it in 
order, so that there was a chance of the ordinary appear- 
ance of things being restored by supper-time, when 
Richard hoped to persuade his father to come down to 
his usual place. 


30 


UNKNOWiJ TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

Long before this, however, a trampling had been 
heard in the court, and a shrill voice, well known to 
X Eichard and Susan, was heard demanding, “ Come home, 
is she — Master Diccon too? More shame for you, 
you sluttish queans and lazy lubbers, never to have let 

me know ; but none of you have any respect ” 

I A visit from my Lady Countess was a greater 
favour to such a household as that of Bridgefield than 
it would be to a cottage of the present day ; Eichard 
was hurrying downstairs, and Susan only tarried to 
throw off the housewifely apron in which she had been 
compounding a cooling drink for the poor old lady, 
and to wash her hands, while Humfrey, rushing up to 
her, exclaimed “ Mother, mother, is it the Queen ? ” 
Queen Elizabeth lierself was not inaptly represented 
by her namesake of Hardwicke, the Queen of Hallam- 
sliire, sitting on her great white mule at the door, 
sideways, with her feet on a board, as little children 
now ride, and attended by a whole troop of gentlemen 
ushers, maidens, prickers, and running footmen. She 
was a woman of the same type as the Queen, which 
was of course enough to stamp her as a celebrated 
beauty, and though she had reached middle age, her 
pale, clear complexion and delicate features were well 
preserved. Her chin w'as too sharp, and there was 
something too thin and keen about her nose and lips 
to promise good temper. She was small of stature, 
^ but she made up for it in dignity of presence, and as she 
1 sat tbeie, with her rich embroidered green satin farthin- 
gale spreading out over the mule, her tall ruff standing 
up fanlike on her shoulders, her riding -rod in her 
hand, and her master of the horse standing at her rein, 
while a gentleman usher wielded an enormous, long- 
hiiudled, green fan, to keep the sun from incommoding 


EVIL TIDINGS. 


81 


IL] 

her, she was, perhaps, even more magnificent than the 
maiden <][ueen herself might have been in her more 
private expeditions. Indeed, she was new to her 
dignity as Countess, having been only a few weeks 
married to the Earl, her fourth husband. Captain 
Talbot did not feel it derogatory to his dignity as a 
gentleman to advance with his hat in his hand to kiss 
her hand, and put a knee to tlie ground as he invited 
her to alight, an invitation his wife heard with dismay 
as she reached the door, for things were by no means 
yet as they should be in the hall. She curtsied low, and 
advanced with her son holding her hand, but shrinking 
behind her. 

“ Ha, kinswoman, is it thou !” was her greeting, as 
she, too, kissed the small, shapely, white, but exceed- 
ingly strong hand that was extended to her ; “ So thou 
art come, and high time too. Thou shouldst never 
have gone a -gadding to Hull, living in lodgings, 
awaiting thine husband, forsooth. Thou art over 
young a matron for such gear, and so I told Hiccon 
Talbot long ago.” 

“ Yea, madam,” said Eichard, somewhat hotly, 
“ and I made answer that my Susan was to be trusted, 
and truly no harm has come thereof.” 

“ Ho ! and you reckon it no harm that thy father 
and mother were left to a set of feckless, brainless, idle 
serving-men and maids in their trouble ? Why, none 
w'ould so much as have seen to thy brother’s poor 
body being laid in a decent grave had not I been at 
hand to take order for it as became a distant kinsman 
of my lord. I tell thee, Eichard, there must be no 
more of these vagabond seafaring ways. Thou must 
serve my lord, as a true retainer and kinsman is bound 
— Nay,” in reply to a gesture, “I will not come in, I 


*32 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

know too well in what ill order the liouse is like to 
be. I did hut take my ride this way to ask how it 
fared with the mistress, and try if I could shake the 
squire from his lethargy, if Mrs. Susan had not had 
the grace yet to be here. How, do they ? ” Then in 
answer, “ Thou must waken him, Diccon — rouse him, 
and tell him that I and my lord expect it of him that 
he should bear his loss as a true and honest Christian 
man, and not pule and moan, since he has a son left — 
ay, and a grandson. You should breed your boy up 
to know his manners, Susan Talbot,” as Humfrey re- 
sisted an attempt to make him do his reverence to my 
lady ; “ that stout knave of yours’ wants the rod. 
Methought I heard you'd borne another, Susan ! Ay ! 
as I said it would be,” as her eye fell on tlie swaddled 
babe in a maid’s arms. “ No lack of fools to eat up 
the poor old squire’s substance. A maid, is it ? Be- 
shrew me, if your voyages will find portions for all 
your wenches ! Has the leech let blood to thy good- 
mother, Susan ? There ! not one amongst you all 
bears any brains. Knew you not how to send up to 
the castle for Master Drewitt ? Farewell ! Thou 
wilt be at the lodge to-morrow to let me know how it 
fares with thy mother, when her brain is cleared by 
further blood-letting. And for the squire, let him 
know that I expect it of him that he shall eat, and 
show himself a man !” 

So saying, the great lady departed, escorted as far 
as the avenue gate by Eichard Talbot, and leaving the 
family gratified by her condescension, and not allo\\ ing 
to themselves how much their feelings were chafed. 


THE CAPTIVE. 


33 


ai.) 


CHAPTER IIL 

THE CAPTIVE. 

Death and sorrow seemed to have marked the house 
of Bridgefield, for the old lady never rallied after the 
blood-letting enjoined by the Countess’s medical science, 
and her husband, though for some months able to 
creep about the house, and even sometimes to visit the 
fields, had lost his memory, and became more childish 
week by week. 

Richard Talbot was obliged to return to his ship at 
the end of the month, but as soon as she was laid up 
for the winter he resigned his command, and returned 
home, where he was needed to assume the part of 
master. In truth he became actually master before 
the next spring, for his father took to his bed with 
the first winter frosts, and in spite of the duteous 
cares lavished upon him by his son and daughter-in- 
law, passed from his bed to his grave at the Christmas 
feast. Richard Talbot inherited house and lands, with 
the undefined sense of feudal obligation to the head of 
his name, and ere long he was called upon to fulfil 
those obligations by service to his lord. 

There had been another act in the great Scottish 
tragedy. Queen Mary had effected her escape from 
Lochleven, but only to be at once defeated, and then to 
D 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


34 


[chap. 


cross the Solway and throw herself into the hands of 
the English Queen. 

Bolton Castle had been proved to be too perilously 
near the Border to serve as her residence, and the 
inquiry at York, and afterwards at Westminster, having 
proved unsatisfactory, Elizabeth had decided on detain - 
ing her in the kingdom, and committed her to the 
charge of the Earl of Shrewsbury. 

To go into the history of that ill-managed investi- 
gation is not the purpose of this tale. It is probable 
that Elizabeth believed her cousin guilty, and wished 
to shield that guilt from being proclaimed, while her 
councillors, in their dread of the captive, wished to 
enhance the crime in Elizabeth’s eyes, and were by no 
means scrupulous as to the kind of evidence they 
adduced. However, this lies outside our story; aU 
that concerns it is that Lord Shrewsbury sent a sum- 
mons to his trusty and well-beloved cousin, Eichard 
Talbot of Bridgefield, to come and form part of the 
guard of honour which was to escort the Queen of 
Scots to Tutbury Castle, and there attend upon lier. 

All this time no hint had been given that the little 
Cicely was of alien blood. The old squire and his 
lady had been in no state to hear of the death of their 
own grandchild, or of the adoption of the orphan, and 
Susan was too reserved a woman to speak needlessly of 
her griefs to one so unsympathising as the Countess or so 
flighty as the daughters at the great house. Tht men 
who had brouglit the summons to Hull had not been 
lodged in the house, but at an inn, where they either 
had heard nothing of Master Eichard’s adventure or had 
drowned their memory in ale, for they said nothing ; 
and thus, without any formed intention of secrecy, 
the child’s parentage had never come into question. 


THE CAPTIVE. 


35 


hl] 

Indeed, though without doubt Mrs. Talbot was 
very loyal in heart to her noble kinsfolk, it is not 
to be denied that she was a good deal more at peace 
when they were not at the lodge. She tried devoutly 
to follow out the directions of my Lady Countess, and 
thought herself in fault when things went amiss, but 
she prospered far more when free from such dictation. 

She had nothing to wish except that her husband 
could be more often at home, but it was better to have 
him only a few hours’ ride from her, at Chatsworth or 
Tutbury, than to know him exposed to the perils of 
the sea. He rode over as often as he could be spared, 
to see his family and look after his property ; but his 
attendance w^as close, and my Lord and my Lady were 
exacting with one whom they could thoroughly trust, 
and it was well that in her quiet way Mistress Susan 
proved capable of ruling men and maids, farm and 
stable as well, as house, servants and children, to whom 
another boy was added in the course of the year after 
her return to Bridgefield. 

In the autumn, notice was sent that the Queen of 
Scots was to be lodged at Sheffield, and long trains of 
waggons and sumpter horses and mules began to arrive, 
bringing her plenishing and household stuff in advance. 
Servants without number were sent on, both by her 
and by the Earl, to make preparations, and on a 
November day, tidings came that the arrival might 
be expected in the afternoon. Commands were sent 
that the inhabitants of the little town at the park 
gate should keep within doors, and not come forth 
to give any show of welcome to their lord and lady, 
lest it should be taken as homage to the captive 
queen; but at the Manor-house there was a little 
family gathering to hail the Earl and Countess. It 


36 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

chiefly consisted of ladies with their children, the 
husbands of most being in the suite of tlie Earl acting 
as escort or guard to the Queen. Susan Talbot, being 
akin to the family on both sides, was there with the 
two elder children ; Humfrey, both that he might 
greet his father the sooner, and that he might be able 
to remember the memorable arrival of the captive 
queen, and Cicely, because he had clamoured loudly 
for her company. Lady Talbot, of the Herbert blood, 
wife to the heir, was present with two young sisters- 
in-law, Lady Grace, daughter to the Earl, and Mary, 
daughter to the Countess, who had been respectively 
married to Sir Henry Cavendish and Sir Gilbert Tal- 
bot, a few weeks before their respective parents were 
wedded, when the brides were only twelve and fourteen 
years old. There, too, was Mrs. Babington of Dethick, 
the recent widow of a kinsman of Lord Shrewsbury, to 
whom had been granted the wardship of her son, and 
the little party waiting in the hall also numbered 
Elizabeth and William Cavendish, the Countess’s 
youngest children, and many dependants mustered hi 
the background, ready for the reception. Indeed, the 
castle and manor-house, with their offices, lodges, and 
outbuildings, were an absolute little city in themselves. 
The castle was still kept in perfect repair, for the 
battle of Bosworth was not quite beyond the memory 
of living men’s fathers ; and besides, who could tell 
whether any day England might not have to be con- 
tested inch by inch with the Spaniard ? So the 
gray walls stood on the tongue of land in the valley, 
formed by the junction of the rivers Sheaf and Dun, 
with towers at all the gateways, enclosing a space of 
no less than eight acres, and with the actual fortress, 
crisp, strong, hard, and unmuuldered in the midst, its 


III.] 


THE CAPTIVE. 


37 


tallest square tower serving as a look-out place for 
those who watched to give the first intimation of the 
arrival. 

The castle had its population, but chiefly of grooms, 
warders, and their families. The state-rooms high up 
in that square tower were so exceedingly confined, 
so stern and grim, that the grandfather of the pre- 
sent earl had built a manor-house for liis family 
residence on the sloping ground on the farther side of 
the Dun. 

This house, built of stone, timber, and brick, with 
two large courts, two gardens, and three yards, covered 
nearly as much space as the castle itself. A pleasant, 
smooth, grass lawn lay in front, and on it converged 
the avenues of oaks and walnuts, stretching towards 
the gates of the park, narrowing to the eye into single 
lines, then going absolutely out of sight, and the sea of 
foliage presenting the utmost variety of beautiful tints 
of orange, yellow, brown, and red. There was a great 
gateway between two new octagon towers of red brick, 
with battlements and dressings of stone, and from this 
porch a staircase led upwards to the great stone-paved 
hall, with a huge fire burning on the open hearth. 
Around it had gathered the ladies of the Talbot 
family waiting for the reception. The warder on the 
tower had blown his horn as a signal that the master 
and his royal guest were within the park, and the 
banner of the Talbots had been raised to announce 
their coming, but nearly half an hour must pass while 
the party came along the avenue from the drawbridge 
over the Sheaf ere they could arrive at the lodge. 

So the ladies, in full state dresses, hovered over the 
fire, while the children played in the window seat near 
at hand. 


38 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

Gilbert Talbot’s wife, a thin, yellow-haired, young 
creature, promising to be like her mother, the Countess, 
had a tongue which loved to run, and with the preco- 
city and importance of wifehood at sixteen, she dilated 
to her companions on her mother’s constant attendance 
on the Queen, and the perpetual plots for that lady’s 
escape. “ She is as shifty and active as any cat-a- 
mount ; and at Cliatsworth she had a scheme for being 
off out of her bedchamber window to meet a traitor 
fellow named Eoll ; but my husband smelt it out in 
good time, and had the guard beneath my lady’s 
window, and the fellows are in gyves, and to see the 
lady the day it was found out ! Not a wry face did 
she make. Oh no ! ’Twas all my good lord, and my 
sweet sir with her. I promise you butter would not 
melt in her mouth, for my Lord Treasurer Cecil hath 
been to see her, and he has promised to bring her to 
speech of her Majesty. May I be there to see. I pro- 
mise you ’twill be diamond cut diamond between them.” 

“How did she and my Lord Treasurer fare to- 
gether ?” asked Mrs. Babington. 

“ Well, you know there’s not a man of them all that 
is proof against her blandishments. Her Majesty 
should have women warders for her. ’Twas good 
sport to see the furrows in his old brow smoothing out 
against his will as it were, while she plied him with 
her tongue. I never saw the Queen herself win such a 
smile as came on his lips, but then he is always a sort 
of master, or tutor, as it were, to the Queen. Ay,” on 
some exclamation from Lady Talbot, “ she heeds him 
like no one else. She may fling out, and run counter 
to him for the very pleasure of feeling that she has 
the power, but she will come round at last, and ’tis 
his will tliat is done in the long run. If this lady 


THE CArTIVE. 


ni.] 


89 


could beguile him indeed, she might be a free woman 
in the end.” 

" And think you tliat she did ?” 

“Not she ! The Lord Treasurer is too long-headed, 
and has too strong a hate to all Papistry, to be beguiled 
more than for the very moment he was before her. He 
cannot help the being a man, you see, and they are all 
alike when once in her presence — your lord and father, 
like the rest of them, sister Grace. Mark me if there 
be not tempests brewing, an we be not the sooner rid 
of this guest of ours. My mother is not the woman 
to bear it long.” 

Dame Mary’s tongue was apt to run on too fast, 
and Lady Talbot interrupted its career with an amused 
gesture towards the children. 

For the little Cis, babe as she was, had all the three 
boys at her service. Humfrey, with a paternal air, was 
holding her on the window-seat ; Antony Babington 
was standing to receive the ball that was being tossed 
to and fro between them, but as she never caught it. 
Will Cavendish was content to pick it up every time 
and return it to her, appearing amply rewarded by her 
laugh of delight. 

The two mothers could not but laugh, and Mrs. 
Babington said the brave lads were learning their 
knightly courtesy early, while Mary Talbot began 
observing on the want of likeness between Cis and 
either the Talbot or Hardwicke race. The little girl 
was much darker in colouring than any of the boys, and 
had a pair of black, dark, heavy brows, that prevented 
her from being a pretty child. Her adopted mother 
shrank from such observations, and was rejoiced that a 
winding of horns, and a shout from the boys, announced 
that the expected arrival was about to take place. Th« 


40 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKT. 


[chap 

ladies darted to the window, and beholding the avenue 
full of horsemen and horsewomen, their accoutrements 
and those of their escort gleaming in the sun, each 
mother gathered her own chicks to herself, smoothed 
the plumage somewhat ruffled by sport, and advanced 
to the head of the stone steps, William Cavendish, the 
eldest of the boys, being sent down to take his step- 
father’s rein and hold his stirrup, page fashion. 

Clattering and jingling the troop arrived. The 
Earl, a stout, square man, with a long narrow face, 
lengthened out farther by a light-coloured, silky beard, 
which fell below his ruff, descended from his steed, 
gave his hat to Eichard Talbot, and handed from her 
horse a hooded and veiled lady of slender proportions, 
who leant on his arm as she ascended the steps. 

The ladies knelt, whether in respect to the heads of 
the family, or to the royal guest, may be doubtful. 

The Queen came up the stairs with rheumatic steps, 
declaring, however, as she did so, that she felt the 
better for her ride, and was less fatigued than when 
she set forth. She had the soft, low, sweet Scottish 
voice, and a thorough Scottish accent and language, 
tempered, however, by French tones, and as, coming 
into the warmer air of the hall, she withdrew her 
veil, her countenance was seen. ]\Iary Stuart was 
only thirty-one at this time, and her face was still 
youthful, though worn and wearied, and bearing tokens 
of illness. The features were far from being regularly 
beautiful ; there was a decided cast in one of .the 
eyes, and in spite of all that Mary Talbot’s detracting 
tongue had said, Susan’s first impression was dis- 
appointment. But, as the Queen greeted the lady 
whom she already knew, and the Earl presented his 
daughter, Lady Grace, his stepdaughter, Elizabeth 


# 


THE CAPTIVE. 


41 


[il] 

Cavendish, and his kinswoman, Mistress Susan Talbot, 
the extraordinary magic of her eye and lip beamed on 
them, the queenly grace and dignity joined with a 
wonderful sweetness impressed them all, and each in 
measure felt the fascination. 

The Earl led the Queen to the fire to obtain a little 
warmth before mounting the stairs to her own apart- 
ments, and likewise while Lady Shrewsbury was dis- 
mounting, and being handed up the stairs by her second 
stepson, Gilbert. The ladies likewise knelt on one 
knee to greet this mighty dame, and the children 
should have done so too, but little Cis, catching sight 
of Captain Eichard, who had come up bearing the 
Earl’s hat, in immediate attendance on him, broke out 
with an exulting cry of “ Father ! father ! father !” 
trotted with outspread arms right in front of the royal 
lady, embraced the booted leg in ecstasy, and then 
stretcliing out, exclaimed “ Up ! up !” 

“ How now, malapert poppet ! ” exclaimed the 
Countess, and though at some distance, uplifted her 
riding-rod. Susan was ready to sink into tlie earth 
with confusion at the great lady’s displeasure, but 
Eichard bad stooped and lifted the little maid in his 
arms, while Queen Mary turned, her face lit up as by 
a sunbeam, and said, “ Ah, bonnibell, art thou fain 
to see thy father? Wilt thou give me one of thy 
kisses, sweet bairnie ?” and as Eichard held her up to 
the kind face, “ A goodly child, brave sir. Thou must 
let me have her at times for a playfellow. Wilt come 
and comfort a poor prisoner, little sweeting ?” 

The child responded with “ Poor poor,” stroking the 
soft delicate cheek, but the Countess interfered, still 
wrathful. “ Master Eichard, I marvel that you should 
let her Grace he beset by a child, who, if she cannot 


42 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap 

demean herself decorously, should have been left at 
home. Susan Hardwicke, I thought I had schooled 
you better.” 

“ Nay, madam, may not a babe’s gentle deed of 
pity be pardoned ?” said Mary. 

“ Oh ! if it pleasures you, madam, so be it,” said 
Lady Shrewsbury, deferentially ; “ but there be children 
here more worthy of your notice than yonder little 
black-browed wench, who hath been allowed to thrust 
herself forward, while others have been kept back 
from importuning your Grace.” ^ 

“ No child can importune a mother who is cut off 
from her own,” said Mary, eager to make up for the 
jealousy she had excited. “ Is this bonnie laddie yours, 
madam ? Ah ! I should have known it by the 
resemblance.” 

She held her white hand to receive the kisses of 
the boys : William Caveudish, under his mother’s eye, 
knelt obediently ; Antony Babiugton, a fair, pretty lad, 
of eight or nine, of a beautiful pink and white com- 
plexion, pressed forward with an eager devotion which 
made the Queen smile and press her delicate hand on 
his curled locks ; as for Humfrey, he retreated behind 
the shelter of his mother’s farthiugale, where his 
presence was forgotten by every one else, and, after 
the rebuff just administered to Cicely, there w^as no 
inclination to bring him to light, or combat with his 
bashfulness. 

The introductions over, Mary gave her hand to the 
Earl to be conducted from the hall up the broad stair- 
case, and along the great w-estern gallery to the south 
front, where for many days her properties had been in 
course of being arranged. 

Lady Shrewsbury followed as mistress of the house, 


THE CAPTIVE. 


43 


[II.] 

and behind, in order of precedence, came the Scottish 
Queen’s household, in which the dark, keen features of 
the French, and the rufous hues of the Scots, were 
nearly equally divided. Lady Livingstone and Mistress 
Seaton, two of the Queen’s Maries of the same age 
with herself, came next, the one led by Lord Talbot, 
the other by Lord Livingstone. There was also the 
faithful French Marie de Courcelles, paired with Master 
Beatoun, comptroller of the household, and Jean 
Kennedy, a stiff Scotswoman, whose hard outlines 
did not do justice to her tenderness and fidelity, and 
with her was a tall, active, keen-faced stripling, looked 
on with special suspicion by the Euglish, as Willie 
Douglas, the contriver of the Queen’s flight from Loch- 
leven. Two secretaries, French and Scottish, were 
shrewdly suspected of being priests, and there were 
besides, a physician, surgeon, apothecary, with per- 
fumers, cooks, pantlers, scullions, lacqueys, to the 
number of thirty, besides their wives and attendants, 
these last being “ permitted of my lord’s benevolence.” 

They were all eyed askance by the sturdy, north 
country English, who naturally hated all strangers, 
above all French and Scotch, and viewed the band of 
captives much like a caged herd of wild beasts. 

When on the way home Mistress Susan asked her 
little boy why he would not make his obeisance to the 
pretty lady, he sturdily answered, “ She is no pretty 
lady of mine. She is an evil woman who slew her 
husband.” 

“ Poor lady ! tongues have been busy with her,” said 
his father. 

* How, sir ?” asked Susan, amazed, " do you think 
her guiltless in the matter?” 

“ I cannot tell,” returned Eichard. “ All I know 


44 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap, 

that many who have no mercy on her would change 
their minds if they beheld lier patient and kindly 
demeanour to all.” 

This was a sort of shock to Susan, as it seemed to 
her to prove the truth of little Lady Talbot’s words, 
that no one was proof against Queen Mary’s wiles ; 
but she w'as happy in having her husband at home 
once more, though, as he told her, he would be occu- 
pied most of each alternate day at Sheffield, he and 
another relation having been appointed “gentlemen 
porters,” which meant that they were to wait in a 
chamber at the foot of the stairs, and keep watch over 
whatever went in or out of the apartments of the 
captive and her suite. 

“ And,” said Eichard, “ who think you came to see 
me at Wingfield ? None other than Cuthbert Lang- 
ston.” 

“ Hath he left his merchandise at Hull ?” 

“ Ay, so he saith. He would fain have had my 
good word to my lord for a post in the household, as 
comptroller of accounts, clerk, or the like. It seemed 
as though there w^ere no office he would not take so 
that he might hang about the neighbourhood of this 
queen.” 

“ Then you would not grant him your recommend- 
ation ?” 

“ Nay, truly. I could not answer for him, and his 
very anxiety made me the more bent on not bringing 
him hither. I’d fain serve in no ship where I know 
not the honesty of all the crew, and Cuthbert hath ever 
had a hankering after the old profession.” 

“ Verily then it were not well to bring him hither.” 

“ Moreover, he is a lover of mysteries and schemes,” 
said Eichard. “ He would never be content to let 


THE CAPTIVE. 


45 


III.] 

alone the question of our little wench’s birth, and 
would be fretting us for ever about the matter.” 

“Did he speak of it ?” 

“ Yea. He would have me to wit that a nurse and 
bal)e liad been put on board at Dumbarton. Well, 
said I, and so they must have been, since on board 
they were. Is that all thou hast to tell me ? And 
mighty as was the work he would have made of it, 
this was all he seemed to know. I asked, in my turn, 
how he came to know thus much about a vessel sailing 
from a port in arms against the Lords of the Congrega- 
tion, the allies of her Majesty ?” 

“ What said he ?” 

“ That his house had dealings with the owners of 
the Bride of Dunbar. I like not such dealings, and so 
long as this lady and her train are near us, I would by 
no means liave him whispering here and there that she 
is a Scottish orphan.” 

“ It would chafe ray Lady Countess !” said Susan, 
to whom this was a serious matter. “ Yet doth it 
not behove us to endeavour to find out her parentage ?” 

“ I tell you I proved to myself that lie knew 
nothing, and all that we have to do is to hinder him 
from making mischief out of that little,” returned 
Richard impatiently. 

The honest captain could scarcely have told the 
cause of his distrust or of his secrecy, but he had a 
general feeling that to let an intriguer like Cuthbert 
Langston rake up any tale that could be connected 
with the party of the captive queen, could only lead 
bo danger and trouble. 


46 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOET. 


[chap. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE OAK AND THE OAKEN HALL 

The oaks of Sheffield Park were one of the greatest 
glories of the place. Giants of the forest stretched 
their huge arms over the turf, kept smooth and velvety 
by the creatures, wild and tame, that browsed on it, 
and made their covert in the deep glades of fern and 
copsewood that formed the background. 

There were not a few whose huge trunks, of such 
girth that two men together could not encompass them 
with outstretched arms, rose to a height of more than 
sixty feet before throwing out a horizontal branch, and 
these branches, almost trees in themselves, spread 
forty-eight feet on each side of the bole, lifting a 
mountain of rich verdure above them, and casting a 
delicious shade upon the ground beneath them. Beneath 
one of these noble trees, some years after the arrival 
of the hapless Mary Stuart, a party of children were 
playing, much to the amusement of an audience of 
which they were utterly unaware, namely, of sundry 
members of a deer-hunting party ; a lady and gentle- 
man who, having become separated from the rest, 
were standing in the deep bracken, which rose nearly 
as high as their heads, and were further sheltered by a 
ruck, looking and listening. 


IV.] THE OAK AND THE OAKEN HAEL. 47 

“ Now tlien, Cis, bravely done ! Show how she 
treats her ladies ” 

“ Who will be her lady ? Thou must, Humfrcy !” 

“No, no, I’ll never be a lady,” said Humfrey, 
gruffly. 

“ Thou then, Diccon.” 

“No, no,” and the little fellow shrank back, “thou 
wilt hurt me, Cis.” 

“ Come then, do thou, Tony ! I’ll not strike too 
hard !” 

“ As if a wench could strike too hard.” 

“He might have turned that more chivalrously,” 
whispered the lady to her companion. “ What are 
they about to represent ? Mort de ma vie, the profane 
little imps ! I believe it is my sacred cousin, the 
Majesty of England herself! Truly the little maid 
hath a bearing that might serve a queen, though she 
be all too black and beetle-browed for Queen Elizabeth. 
Who is she. Master Gilbert ?” 

“ She is Cicely Talbot, daughter to the gentleman 
porter of your Majesty’s lodge.” 

“ See to her — mark her little dignity with her 
heather and bluebell crown as she sits on the rock, as 
stately as jewels could make her! See her gesture 
with her hands, to mark where the standing ruff 
ought to be. She hath the true spirit of the comedy 
— ah ! and here cometh young Antony with mincing 
pace, with a dock-leaf for a fan, and a mantle for a 
farthingale! She speaks ! now hark !” 

“ Good morrow to you, my young mistress,” began a 
voice pitched two notes higher than its actual childlike 
key. “ Thou hast a new farthingale, I see ! 0 Antony, 

that’s not the way to curtsey — do it like this. No 
no ! thou clumsy fellow — back and knees together.” 


UNKNOWN TO IIISTOKY. 


‘tS 


fciLAP. 


“ Never mind, Cis,” interposed one of tlie boys — 
“ we shall lose all our play time if you try to make 
him do it with a grace. Curtsies are women’s work 
— go on.” 

“ Where was I ? 0 — ” (resuming her dignity after 
these asides) “ Thou hast a new farthingale, I see.” 

“ To do my poor honour to your Grace’s birthday. 

“ Oh ho ! Is it so ? Methought it had been to do 
honour to my fair mistress’s own taper waist. And 
pray how much an ell was yonder broidered stuff?” 

"Two crowns, an’t please your Grace,” returned 
the supposed lady, making a wild conjecture. 

“ Two crowns ! thou foolish Antony ! ” Then 
recollecting herself, “ two crowns ! what, when mine 
costs but half! Thou presumptuous, lavish varlet — 
no, no, wench 1 what right hast thou to wear gowns 
finer than thy liege ? — I’ll teach you.” Wherewith, 
erecting all her talons, and clawing frightfully with 
them in the air, the supposed Queen Bess leapt at the 
unfortunate maid of honour, appeared to tear the 
imaginary robe, and drove her victim off the stage 
with a great air of violence, amid peals of laughter 
from the other children, loud enough to drown those 
of the elders, who could hardly restrain their merri- 
ment. Gilbert Talbot, however, had been looking 
about him anxiously all the time, and would fain have 
moved away ; but a sign from Queen Mary withheld 
him, as one of the children cried, 

“Now 1 show us how she serves her lords.” 

The play seemed well understood between them, 
for the mimic queen again settled herself on her 
throne, while Will Cavendish, calling out, “ Now I’m 
Master Hatton,” began to tread a stately measure on 
the grass, while the queen exclaimed, “ Who is this 


IV.] THE OAK AND THE OAKEN HALL, 49 

new star of my court ? What stalwart limbs, what 
graceful tread ! Who art thou, sir ?” 

“ Madam.I am — I am. Wliat is it? An ef — ef 

“A daddy-long-legs,” mischievously suggested an- 
other of the group, 

“ No, it’s Latin. Is it Ephraim ? No ; it’s a fly, 
something like a gnat ” (then at an impatient gesture 
from her Majesty) “ disporting itself in the beams of 
the noontide sun.” 

“ Blood-sucking,” whispered the real Queen behind 
the fern. “ He is not so far out there. See ! see ! 
with what a grace the child holds out her little hand 
for him to kiss. I doubt me if Elizabeth herself could 
\)e more stately. But who comes here ?” 

“ I’m Sir Philip Sydney.” 

“ No, no,” shouted Humfrey, “ Sir Philip shall not 
come into this fooling. My father says he’s the best 
knight in England,” 

“ He is as bad as the rest in flattery to the Queen,” 
returned young Cavendish, 

“ I’ll not have it, I say. You may be Lord Lei- 
cester an you wiU ! He’s but Eobin Dudley.” 

“ Ah !” began the lad, now advancing and shading 
his eyes. “ What burnished splendour dazzles my 
weak sight? Is it a second Juno that I behold, or 
lovely Venus herself ? Nay, there is a wisdom in her 
that can only belong to the great Minerva herself! 
So youthful too. Is it Hebe descended to this earth ?” 

(.'is smirked, and held out a hand, saying in an 
affected tone, “ Lord Earl, are thy wits astray ?” 

" Wliose wits would not be perturbed at the mere 
sight of such exquisite beauty ?” 

“ Come and sit at our feet, and we will try to restore 
them,” said the stage queen ; but here little Diccon 
E 


50 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CTIAp. 

tlie youngest of the party, eager for more action, called 
out, “ Show us how she treats her lords and ladies 
together.” 

On which young Babington, as the lady, and 
Hunifrey, made demonstrations of love-making and 
betrothal, upon whicli their sovereign lady descended 
on them with furious tokens of indignation, abusing them 
right and left, until in the midst the great castle bell 
pealed forth, and caused a flight general, being, in fact, 
the summons to the school kept in one of the castle 
chambers by one Master Snigg, or Sniggius, for the 
children of the numerous colony who peopled the 
castle. Girls, as well as boys, were taught there, and 
thus Cis accompanied Hunifrey and Diccon, and con- 
sorted with their companions. 

Queen Mary was allowed to hunt and take out-of- 
door exercise in the park whenever she pleased, but 
Lord Shrewsbury, or one of his sons, Gilbert and 
Francis, never was absent from her for a moment 
when she went beyond the door of the lesser lodge, 
which the Earl had erected for her, with a flat, leaded, 
and parapeted roof, where she could take the air, and 
with only one entrance, where was stationed a “ gentle- 
man porter,” with two subordinates, whose business it 
was to keep a close watch over every person or thing 
that went in or out. If she had any purpose of losing 
herself in the thickets of fern, or copsewood, in the 
park, or holding unperceived conference under shelter 
of the chase, these plans were rendered impossible by 
the pertinacious presence of one or otlier of the Talbots, 
who acted completely up to their name. 

Thus it was that the Queen, with Gilbert in close 
attendance, had found herself an unseen spectator of 
the cliildren’s performance, which she watched with 


IV.] THE OAK AND THE OAKEN HALL. 6l 

the keen enjoyment that sometimes made her fc rget her 
troubles for the moment. 

“ How got the imps such knowledge ?” mused Gil- 
bert Talbot, as he led the Queen out on the sward 
which had been the theatre of their mimicry. 

“Do you ask that, Sir Gilbert?” said the Queen 
with emphasis, for indeed it was his wife who had been 
the chief retailer of scandal about Queen Elizabeth, 
to the not unwilling ears of herself and his mother; 
and Antony Babington, as my lady’s page, had but 
used his opportunities. 

“They are insolent varlets and deserve the rod,” 
continued Gilbert. 

“You are too ready with the rod, you English,” 
returned Mary. “You flog all that is clever and 
spirited out of your poor children !” 

“ That is the question, madam. Have the English 
been found so deficient in spirit compared with other 
nations ?” 

“ Ah ! we all know what you English • can say for 
yourselves,” returned the Queen. “ See what Master 
John Coke hath made of the herald’s argument before 
Dame Ben own, in his translation. He hath twisted 
all the other way.” 

“ Yea, madam, but the French herald had it all his 
own way before. So it was but just we should have 
our turn.” 

Here a cry from the other hunters greeted them, 
and they found Lord Shrewsbury, some of the ladies, 
and a number of prickers, looking anxiously for 
them. 

“ Here we are, good my lord,” said the Queen, who, 
when free from rheumatism, was a most active walker. 

We have only been stalking my sister Qceen’s court 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


52 


[chap 


in small, the prettiest and drollest pastime 1 hive seen 
for many a long day.” 

Much had happened in the course of the past years. 
The intrigues with Northumberland and Norfolk, and 
the secret efforts of the unfortunate Queen to obtain 
friends, and stir up enemies against Elizabeth, had 
resulted in her bonds being drawn closer and closer. 
The Eising of the North had taken place, and Cuth- 
bert Langston had been heard of as taking a prominent 
part beneath the sacred banner, but he had been 
wounded and not since heard of, and his kindred knew 
not whether he were among the unnamed dead wlio 
loaded the trees in the rear of the army of Sussex, or 
whether he had escaped beyond seas. Eichard Talbot 
still remained as one of the trusted kinsmen of Lord 
Shrewsbury, on whom that nobleman depended for the 
execution of the charge which yearly became more weari- 
some and onerous, as hope decayed and plots thickened. 

Though resident in the new lodge with her train, 
it was greatly diminished by the dismissal from time 
to time of persons who were regarded as suspicious; 
Mary still continued on intimate terms with Lady 
Shrewsbury and her daughters, specially distinguishing 
with her favour Bessie Pierrepoint, the eldest grandchild 
of the Countess, who slept with her, and was her play- 
thing and her pupil in French and needlework. The 
fiction of her being guest and not prisoner had not 
entirely passed away ; visitors were admitted, and she 
went in and out of the lodge, walked or rode at will, 
only under pretext of courtesy. She never was un- 
accompanied by the Earl or one of his sons, and they 
endeavoured to make all private conversation with 
strangers, or persons unauthorised from Court, im- 
possible to her. 


rv.j THE OAK AND THE OAKEN HALL, 63 

The invitation given to little Cicely on the 
arrival had not been followed up. The Countess wished 
to reserve to her own family all the favours of one who 
might at any moment become the Queen of England, 
and she kept Susan Talbot and her children in what 
she called their meet place, in which that good lady 
thoroughly acquiesced, having her hands much too full 
of household affairs to run after queens. 

There was a good deal of talk about this child’s 
play, a thing which had much better have been left 
where it was ; but in a seclusion like that of Sheffield 
subjects of conversation were not over numerous, and 
every topic which occurred was apt to be worried to 
shreds. So Lady Shrewsbury and her daughters heard 
the Queen’s arch description of the children’s mimicry, 
and instantly conceived a desire to see the scene 
repeated. The gentlemen did not like it at all : their 
loyalty was offended at the insult to her gracious 
Majesty, and besides, what might not happen if such 
sports ever came to her ears ? However, the Countess 
ruled Sheffield ; and Mary Talbot and Bessie Cavendish 
ruled the Countess, and they were bent on their own 
way. So the representation was to take place in the 
great hall of the manor-house, and the actors were to 
be dressed in character from my lady’s stores. 

“ They will ruin it, these clumsy English, after their 
own fashion,” said Queen Mary, among her ladies. “ It 
was the unpremeditated grace and innocent audacity of 
the little ones that gave the charm. Now it will be a 
mere broad farce, worthy of Bess of Hardwicke. Mais 
qi(£ voulez voiis f ” 

The performance was, however, laid under a great 
disadvantage by the absolute refusal of Eichard and 
Susan Talbot to allow their Cicely to assxune the part 


54 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

of Queen Elizabeth. They had been dismayed at hei 
doing so in child’s play, and since she could read 
fluently, write pretty well, and cipher a little, the good 
mother had decided to put a stop to this free associa- 
tion with the boys at the castle, and to keep her at 
home to study needlework and housewifery. As to 
her acting with boys before the assembled households, 
the proposal seemed to them absolutely insulting to 
any daughter of the Talbot line, and they had by this 
time forgotten that she was no such thing. Bess 
Cavendish, the special spoilt child of the house, 
even rode down, armed with her mother’s commands, 
but her feudal feeling did not here sway Mistress 
Susan. 

Public acting was esteemed an indignity for women, 
and, though Cis was a mere child, all Susan’s woman- 
hood awoke, and she made answer firmly that she 
could not obey my Lady Countess in this. 

Bess flounced out of the house, indignantly telling 
her she should rue the day, and Cis herself cried pas- 
sionately, longing after the fine robes and jewels, and 
the presentation of herself as a queen before the whole 
company of the castle. The harsh system of the time 
made the good mother think it her duty to requite 
this rebellion with the rod, and to set the child down 
to her seam in the corner, and there sat Cis, pouting 
and brooding over what Antony Babington had told 
her of what he had picked up when in his page’s 
capacity, attending his lady, of Queen Mary’s admira- 
tion of the pretty ways and airs of the little mimic 
Queen Bess, till she felt as if she were defrauded of 
her due. The captive Queen was her dream, and to 
hear her commendations, perhaps be kissed by her, 
would be supreme bliss. Nay, she still hoped that 


IV.] THE OAK AND THE OAKEN HALL. 65 

there would be an interference of the higher powers 
on her behalf, which would give her a triumph. 

No ! Captain Talbot came home, saying, “ So, 
Mistress Sue, thou art a steadfast woman, to have 
resisted my lady’s will ! ” 

“ I knew, my good husband, that thou wouldst 
never see our Cis even in sport a player ! ” 

“ Assuredly not, and thou hadst the best of it, for 
when Mistress Bess came in as full of wrath as a 
petard of powder, and made your refusal known, my 
lord himself cried out, ‘And she’s in the right o’t ! 
What a child may do in sport is not fit for a gentle- 
woman in earnest.’ ” 

“ Then, hath not my lord put a stop to the whole ? ” 

“ Fain would he do so, but the Countess and her 
daughters are set on carrying out the sport. They 
have set Master Sniggius to indite the speeches, and 
the boys of the school are to take the parts for their 
autumn interlude.” 

“ Surely that is perilous, should it come to the 
knowledge of those at Court.” 

“ Oh, I promise you, Sniggius hath a device for 
disguising all that could give offence. The Queen 
will become Seiniramis or Zenobia, I know not which, 
and my Lord of Leicester, Master Hatton, and the 
others, will be called Ninus or Longinus, or some 
such heathenish long-tailed terms, and speak speeches 
of mighty length. Are they to be in Latin, Hum- 
frey?” 

“ Oh no, sir,” said Humfrey, with a shudder. 

Master Sniggius would have had them so, but the 
young ladies said they would have nothing to do with 
the affair if there were one word of Latin uttered. It 
ui bad enough as it is. I am to be Philidaspes, an 


56 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOliY. 


[chap. 

Assyrian kiiiglit, and have some speeches to learn, 
at least one is twenty-five lines, and not one is less 
tlian five ! ” 

“ A right requital for thy presumptuous and treason- 
able game, my son,” said his father, teasing him. 

“And who is to be the Queen?” asked the mother 

“ Antony Babington,” said Humfrey, “ because he 
can amble and mince more like a wench than any of 
us. The worse luck for him. He will have more 
speeches than any one of us to learn.” 

The report of the number of speeches to be learnt 
took off the sting of Cis’s disappointment, though she 
would not allow that it did so, declaring with truth 
that she could learn by hearing faster than any of the 
boys. Indeed, she did learn all Humfrey’s speeches, 
and Antony’s to boot, and assisted both of them with 
all her might in committing them to memory. 

As Captain Talbot had foretold, the boys’ sport 
was quite sufficiently punished by being made into 
earnest. Master Sniggius was far from merciful as to 
length, and his satire was so extremely remote that 
Queen Elizabeth herself could hardly have found out 
that Zenobia’s fine moral lecture on the vanities of too 
aspiring ruffs was founded on the box on the ear which 
rewarded poor Lady Mary Howard’s display of her 
rich petticoat, nor would her cheeks have tingled when 
the Queen of the East — by a bold adaptation — played 
the part of Lion in interrupting the interview of our 
old friends Pyramus and Thisbe, who, by an awful 
anachronism, were carried to Palmyra. It was no 
plagiarism from “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” only 
drawn from the common stock of playwrights. 

So, shorn of all that was perilous, and only under- 
stood by the initiated, the play took place in the Castle 


IV.] THE OAK AND THE OAKEN HALL. 5" 

Hall, the largest aA'^ailable place, with Queen Marj 
seated upon the dais, with a canopy of State over hei 
head, Lady Shrewsbury on a chair nearly as high, the 
Earl, the gentlemen and ladies of their suites drawn 
up in a circle, the servants where they could, the 
Earl’s musicians thundering with drums, tooting with 
fifes, twanging on fiddles, overhead in a gallery. Cis 
and Diccon, on either side of Susan Talbot, gazing on 
the stage, where, much encumbered by hoop and far- 
thingale, and arrayed in a yellow curled wig, strutted 
forth Antony Babington, declaiming — 

“ Great Queen Zenobia am I, 

The Roman Power I defy. 

At my Palmyra, in the East, 

I rule o’er every man and beast.” 

Here was an allusion couched in the Eoman power, 
which Master Antony had missed, or he would hardly 
have uttered it, since he was of a Eoman Catholic 
family, though, while in the Earl’s household, he had 
to conform outwardly. 

A slender, scholarly lad, with a pretty, innocent 
face, and a voice that could “speak small, like a 
woman,” came in and announced himself thus — 

“ I’m Thisbe, an Assyrian maid. 

My robe’s with jewels overlaid.” 

The stiff colloquy between the two boys, encumbered 
with their dresses, shy and awkward, and rehearsing 
their lines like a task, was no small contrast to the 
merry impromptu under the oak, and the gay, free 
grace of the children. 

Poor Philidaspes acquitted himself worst of all, for 
when done up in a glittering suit of sham armour, with 


53 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap 

a sword and dagger of lath, his entire speech, though 
well conned, deserted him, and he stood red-faced, 
hesitating, and ready to cry, when suddenly from the 
midst of the spectators there issned a childish voice, 
“ Go on, Humfrey ! 

“ Philidaspes am I, most valorous knight, 

Ever ready for Church and Queen to fighL 

“ Go on, I say !” and she gave a little stamp of 
impatience, to the extreme confusion of the mother and 
the great amusement of the assembled company. 
Humfrey, once started, delivered himself of the rest of 
his oration in a glum and droning voice, occasioning 
fits of laughter, such as by no means added to his self- 
possession. 

The excellent Sniggius and his company of boys 
had certainly, whether intentionally or not, deprived 
the performance of all its personal sting, and most 
likewise of its interest. Such diversion as the specta- 
tors derived was such as Hippolyta seems to have found 
in listening to Wall, Lion, Moonshine and Co. ; but, 
like Theseus, Lord Shrewsbury was very courteous, and 
complimented both playwright and actors, relieved and 
thankful, no doubt, that Queen Zenobia was so unlike 
his royal mistress. 

There was nothing so much enforced by Queen 
Elizabeth as that sti-angers should not have resort to 
Sheffield Castle. No spectators, except those attached 
to the household, and actually forming part of the 
colony within the park, were therefore supposed to be 
admitted, and all of them were carefully kept at a dis- 
tant part of the hall, where they could have no access 
to the now much reduced train of the Scottish Queen, 
lis ith whom all intercourse was forbidden. 


IV.] THE OAK AND THE OAKEN HALU 59 

Humfrey was therefore surprised when, just as he 
had come out of the tiring-room, glad to divest liimself 
of his encumbering and gaudy equipments, a man 
touched him on the arm and humbly said, “ Sir, I have 
a humble entreaty to make of you. If you would 
convey my petition to the Queen of Scots !” 

“ I have nothing to do with the Queen of Scots,” 
said the ex-Philidaspes, glancing suspiciously at the 
man’s sleeve, where, however, he saw the silver dog, 
the family badge. 

“ She is a charitable lady,” continued the man, who 
looked like a groom, “ and if she only knew that my 
poor old aunt is lying famishing, she would aid her. 
Pray you, good my lord, help me to let this scroll 
reach to her.” 

“ I’m no lord, and I have naught to do with the 
Queen,” repeated Humfrey, while at the same moment 
Antony who had been rather longer in getting out of 
his female attire, presented himself ; and Humfrey, pity- 
ing the man’s distress, said, “ This young gentleman is 
the Countess’s page. He sometimes sees the Queen.” 

The man eagerly told his story, how his aunt, the 
widow of a huckster, had gone on with the trade till 
she had been cruelly robbed and beaten, and now was 
utterly destitute, needing aid to set herself up again. 
The Queen of Scots was noted for her beneficent alms- 
giving, and a few silver pieces from her would be quite 
sufficient to replenish her basket. 

iSTeither boy doubted a moment. Antony had the 
tntr&e to the presence chamber, where on this festival 
night the Earl and Countess were sure to be with the 
Queen. He went straightway thither, and trained as 
he was in the usages of the place, told his business 
to the Earl, who was seated near the Queen. Lord 


60 Unknown to ttisxoKY. [chap. 

Shrewsbury took the petition from him, glanced it 
over, and asked, “ Who knew the Guy Norman who sent 
it?” Frank Talbot answered for him, that he was a 
yeoman pricker, and the Earl permitted the paper to be 
carried to Mary, watching her carefully as she read it, 
when Antony had presented it on one knee. 

" Poor woman !” she said, “ it is a piteous case. 
Master Beatoun, hast thou my purse ? Here, Master 
Babington, wilt thou be the bearer of this angel for 
me, since I know that the delight of being the bearer 
will be a reward to thy kind heart.” 

Antony gracefully kissed the fair hand, and ran 
off joyously with the Queen’s bounty. Little did any 
one guess what the career thus begun would bring that 
fair boy. 


vj 


THE HUCKSTERING WOMAN. 


61 


CHAPTER V. 

THE HUCKSTERING WOMAN. 

The huckstering woman, Tibbott by name, was tended 
by Queen Mary’s apothecary, and in due time was sent 
off well provided, to the great fair of York, whence 
she returned with a basket of needles, pins (such as 
they were), bodkins, and the like articles, wherewith to 
circulate about Hallamshire, but the gate-wards would 
not relax their rules so far as to admit her into the 
park. She was permitted, however, to bring her wares 
to the town of Sheffield, and to Bridgefield, but she 
might come no farther. 

Thither Antony Babington came down to lay out 
the crown whicli had been given to him on bis birth- 
day, and indeed half Master Sniggius’s scholars dis- 
covered needs, and came down either to spend, or to 
give advice to the happy owners of groats and testers. 
So far so good ; but the huckster- woman soon made 
Bridgefield part of her regular rounds, and took little 
commissions which she executed for the household of 
Sheffield, who were, as the Cavendish sisters often said 
in their spleen, almost as much prisoners as the Queen 
of Scots. Antony Babington was always her special 
patron, and being Humfrey’s great companion and play- 
fellow, he was allowed to come in and out of the gates 


32 


UNKNOW:^ TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

unquestioned, to play with him and with Cis, who no 
longer went to school, hut was trained at home in 
needlework and housewifery. 

Match-making began at so early an age, that when 
I\Iistress Susan had twice found her and Antony 
Babington with their heads together over the lament- 
able ballad of the cold fish that had been a lady, and 
which sang its own history “ forty thousand fathom 
above water,” she began to question whether the girl 
were the attraction. He was now an orphan, and his 
wardship and marriage had been granted to the Earl, 
who, having disposed of all his daughters and step- 
daughters, except Bessie Cavendish, might very fairly 
bestow on the daughter of his kinsman so good a 
match as the young squire of Dethick. 

“ Then should we have to consider of her parentage,” 
said Eichard, when his wife had propounded her views. 

“ I never can bear in mind that the dear wench is 
none of ours,” said Susan. “ Thou didst say thou 
wouldst portion her as if she were our own little maid, 
and I have nine webs ready for her household linen. 
Must we speak of her as a stranger?” 

“ It would scarce be just towards another family to 
let them deem her of true Talbot blood, if she were to 
enter among them,” said Eichard ; “ though I look on 
the little merry maid as if she were mine own child. 
But there is no need yet to begin upon any such coil ; 
and, indeed, I would wager that my lady hath other 
views for young Babington.” 

After all, parents often know very little of what 
passes in children’s minds, and Cis never hinted to her 
mother that the bond of union between her and Antony 
was devotion to the captive Queen. Cis had only had a 
glimpse or two of her, riding by when hunting or hawk* 


THE HUCKSTERING WOMAN. 


63 


ing, or when, on festive occasions, all who were privileged 
to enter the park were mustered together, among whom 
the Talbots ranked high as kindred to both Earl and 
Countess ; but those glimpses had been enough to fill 
the young heart with romance, such as the matter-of- 
fact elders never guessed at. Antony Babington, who 
was often actually in the gracious presence, and received 
occasional smiles, and even greetings, was immeasur- 
ably devoted to the Queen, and maintained Cicely’s 
admiration by his vivid descriptions of the kindness, 
the grace, the charms of tlie royal captive, in con- 
trast with the innate vulgarity of their own Countess. 

Willie Douglas (the real Eoland Grieme of the 
escape from Lochleven) had long ago been dismissed 
from Mary’s train, witli all the other servants who weye 
deemed superfluous ; but Antony had heard the details 
of the story from Jean Kennedy (Mrs. Kennett, as the 
English were pleased to call her), and Willie was the 
hero of his emulative imagination. 

“ What would I not do to be like him!” he fervently 
exclaimed when he had narrated the story to Humfrey 
and Cis, as they lay on a nest in the fern one fine 
autumn day, resting after an expedition to gather 
blackberries for the mother’s preserving. 

“ I would not be him for anything,” said Humfrey. 

“ Eie, Humfrey,” cried Cis ; “ would not you dare 
exile or anything else in a good cause ? ” 

“For a good cause, ay,” said Humfrey in his stolid 
way. 

“ And what can be a better cause than that of the 
fairest of captive queens ? ” exclaimed Antony, hotly. 

“ I would not be a traitor,” returned Humfrev, as 
he lay on his back, looking up through the chequer- 
work of the branches of 1 he trees towards the sky. 


64 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chat. 

“ Who dares link the word traitor with my nante ?” 
said Babington, feeling for the imaginary handle of a 
sword. 

“ Not I ; but you’ll get it linked if you go en in 
this sort.” 

“ For shame, Humfrey,” again cried Cis, passicn- 
ately. “ Why, delivering imprisoned princesses always 
was the work of a true knight.” 

“ Yea ; but they first defied the giant openly,” said 
Humfrey. 

“ Wliat of that ? ” said Antony. 

“ They did not do it under trust,” said Humfrey. 

“ I am not under trust,” said Antony. “ Your 
father may be a sworn servant of the Earl and the 
Queen — Queen Elizabeth, I mean ; but I have taken 
no oaths — nobody asked me if I would come here.” 

“ No,” said Humfrey, knitting his brows ; “ but you 
see we are all trusted to go in and out as we please, 
on the understanding that we do nought that can be 
unfaithful to the Earl ; and I suppose it was thus with 
this same Willie Douglas.” 

“ She was his own true and lawful Queen,” cried 
Cis. “ His first duty was to her.” 

Humfrey sat up and looked perplexed, but with 
a sudden thought exclaimed, “ No Scots are we, thanks 
be to Heaven ! and what might be loyalty in him 
would be rank treason in us.” 

“How know you that?” said Antony. “I have 
heard those who say that our lawful Queen is there,” 
and he pointed towards the walls that rose in the dis- 
tance above the woods. 

Humfrey rose wrathful. “ Then truly you are no 
better than a traitor, and a Spaniard, and a Papist,” 
and fists were clenched on b(2tli sides, while Cis flevv 


THE HUCKSTERING WOMAN. 


65 


between, pulling down Humfrey’s uplifted hand, and 
crying, “ No, no ; he did not sa}' he thought so, only 
he had heard it.” 

“ Let him say it again ! ” growled Antony, his arm 
bared. 

“ No, don’t, Humfrey ! ” as if she saw it between his 
clenched teeth. “ You know you only meant if Tony 
thought so, and he didn’t. Now how can you two be 
so foolish and unkind to me, to bring me out for a 
holiday to eat blackberries and make heather crowns, 
and then go and spoil it all with folly about Papists, 
and Spaniards, and grown-up people’s nonsense that 
nobody cares about ! ” 

Cis had a rare power over both her comrades, and 
her piteous appeal actually disarmed them, since there 
was no one present to make them ashamed of their 
own placability. Grown - up people’s follies were 
avoided by mutual consent tliroiigh the rest of the 
walk, and the three children parted amicably when 
Antony had to return to fulfil his page’s duties at my 
lord’s supper, and Humfrey and Cis carried home their 
big basket of blackberries. 

When they entered their own hall they found their 
mother engaged in conversation with a tall, stout, and 
weather-beaten man, whom she announced — “ See here, 
my children, here is a good friend of your father’s. 
Master Goatley, who was his chief mate in all his 
voyages, and hath now come over all the way from 
Hull to see him ! He will be here anon, sir, so soon 
as the guard is changed at the Queen’s lodge. Mean- 
time, here are the elder children.” 

Diccon, who had been kept at home by some tem- 
porary damage to his foot, and little Edward were 
devouring the sailor wifTi their eyes ; and Humfrey 
F 


66 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CHAP. 


and Cis were equally delighted with the intioduction, 
especially as Master Goatley was just returned from 
the Western Main, and from a curious grass- wo veil 
basket which he carried slung to his side, produced 
sundry curiosities in the way of beads, shell-work, 
feather-work, and a hatchet of stone, and even a curious 
armlet of soft, dull gold, with pearls set in it. This 
he had, with great difficulty, obtained on purpose for 
Mistress Talbot, who had once cured liim of a bad 
festering hurt received on board ship. 

The children clustered round in ecstasies of admira- 
tion and wonder as they heard of the dark brown 
natives, the curious expedients by which barter was 
carried on ; also of cruel Spaniards, and of savage 
fishes, with all the marvels of flying-fish, corals, palm- 
trees, humming birds — all that is lesson work to our 
modern youth, but was the most brilliant of living 
fairy tales at this Elizabethan period. Humfrey and 
Diccon were ready to rush off to voyage that instant, 
and even little Ned cried imitatively in his iiuj^erfect 
language that he would be “ a tailor.” 

Then their father came home, and joyfully wel- 
comed and clasped hands with his faithful mate, 
declaring that the sight did him good ; and they sat 
down to supper and talked of voyages, till the boys’ 
eyes’ glowed, and they beat upon their own knees with 
the enthusiasm that their strict manners bade them 
repress ; while their mother kept back her sighs as 
she saw them becoming infected with that sea fever so 
dreaded by parents. Nay, she saw it in her husband 
himself. She knew him to be grievously weary of a 
charge most monotonously dull, and only varied by 
suspicions and petty detections ; and that he was 
hungering and thirsting for his good ship and to be 


THE HUCKSTERING WOMAN. 


67 


V.] 

facing winds and waves. Slie could hear his longing in 
the very sound of the “ Ays ? ” and brief inquiries by 
which he encouraged Goatley to proceed in the story 
of voyages and adventures, and she could not wonder 
when Goatley said, “ Your heart is in it still, sir. 
Not one of us all but says it is a pity such a noble 
captain should be lost as a landsman, with nothing to 
do but to lock the door on a lady.” 

“ Speak not of it, my good Goatley,” said Eichard, 
hastily, “ or you will set me dreaming and make me 
mad.” 

“ Then it is indeed so,” returned Goatley. “ Where- 
fore then come you not, sir, where a crew is waiting for 
you of as good fellows as ever stepped on a deck, and 
who, one and all, are longing after sucli a captain 
as you are, sir ? Wherefore hold back while still in 
your prime ? ” 

“ i\sk the mistress, there,” said Eichard, as he saw 
his Susan’s white face and trembling fingers, though 
she kept her. eyes on her work to prevent them from 
betraying their tears and their wistfulness. 

“ 0 sweet father,” burst forth Humfrey, “ do but 
go, and take me. I am quite old enough.” 

“ Nay, Humfrey, ’tis no matter of Eking,” said his 
father, not wishing to prolong his wife’s suspense. 
“ Look you here, boy, my Lord Earl is captain of all 
of his name by right of birth, and so long as he needs 
my^ services, I have no right to take them from him. 
Dost see, my boy ? ” 

Humfrey reluctantly did see. It was a great favour 
to be thus argued with, and admitted of no reply. 

Mrs. Talbot’s heart rejoiced, but she was not sorry 
that it was time for her to carry off Diccon and Ned to 
tlieir beds, away from the fascinating narrative, and she 


68 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHjV» 

would give no respite, though Diccon pleaded hard 
In fact, the danger might be the greatest to him, since 
Humfrey, though born within the smell of the sea, 
might be retained by the call of duty like his father. To 
Cis, at least, she thought the sailor’s conversation could 
do no harm, little foreboding the words that presently 
ensued. “ And, sir, what befeU the babe we found in 
our last voyage off the Spurn ? It would methinks be 
about tlie age of this pretty mistress.” 

Kichard Talbot endeavoured to telegraph a look 
both of assent and warning, but though Master 
Goatley would have been sharp to detect the least 
token of a Spanish galleon on the most distant horizon, 
the signal fell utterly short. “ Ay, sir. What, is it 
so ? Bless me ! The very maiden ! And you have 
bred her up for your own.” 

“ Sir ! Father ! ” cried Cis, looking from one to the 
other, with eyes and mouth wide open. 

“ Soh ! ” cried the sailor, “ what have I done ? I 
beg your pardon, sir, if I have overhauled what 
should have been let alone. But,” continued the 
honest, but tactless man, “ who could have thought of 
the like of that, and that the pretty maid never knew 
it? Ay, ay, dear heart. Never fear but that the 
captain will be good father to you all the same.” 

For Eichard Talbot had held out his arm, and,, 
as Cis ran up to him, he had seated her on his 
knee, and held her close to him. Humfrey likewise 
started up with an impulse to contradict, which was 
suddenly cut short by a strange flash of memory, so 
ail he did was to come up to his father, and grasp 
one of the girl’s hands as fast as he could. She 
trembled and shivered, bat there was something in the 
presence of this strange man which choked back all 


THE HUCKSTEKING WOMAN. 


69 


v-3 

iiujuiry, and the silence, the vehement grasp, and the 
shuddering, alarmed the captain, lest she might sud- 
denly go off into a fit upon his hands. 

“ This is gear for mother,” said he, and taking her 
up like a baby, carried her off, followed closely by 
Humfrey. He met Susan coming down, asking 
anxiously, “ Is she sick ? ” 

“ I hope not, mother,” he said, " but honest Goatley, 
thinking no harm, hath blurted out that which we 
had never meant her to know, at least not yet awhile, 
and it hath wrought strangely with her.” 

“ Then it is true, father ? ” said Humfrey, in rather 
an awe-stricken voice, while Cis still buried her face 
on the captain’s breast. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ yea, my children, it is true that 
God sent us a daughter from the sea and the wreck 
when He had taken our own little maid to His rest. 
But we have ever loved our Cis as well, and hope 
ever to do so while she is our good child. Take 
her, mother, and tell the children how it befell ; if I 
go not down, the fellow will spread it all over the 
house, and happily none were present save Humfrey 
and the little maiden.” 

Susan put the child down on her own bed, and 
there, with Humfrey standing by, told the history of 
the father carrying in the little shipwrecked babe. 
They both listened with eyes devouring her, but they 
were as yet too young to ask questions about evi- 
dences, and Susan did not volunteer these, only when the 
girl asked, “ Then, have I no name ? ” she answered, 
“ A godly minister. Master Heatherthwayte, gave thee 
the name of Cicely when he christened thee.” 

“ I marvel who lam?” said Cis, gazing round her, 
as if the world were all new to her. 


70 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

It does not matter,” said Ilumfrey, “ you are 
just the same to us, is she not, mother ? ” 

“ She is our dear Heaven-sent child,” said the mother 
tenderly. 

“ But thou art not my true mother, nor Humfrey 
nor Diccou my brethren,” she said, stretching out her 
hands like one in the dark. 

“ If I’m not your brother, Cis, I’ll be your husband, 
and then you will have a real right to be called Talbot 
That’s better than if you were my sister, for then you 
would go away, I don’t know where, and now you 
will always be mine — mine — mine very own.” 

And as he gave Cis a hug in assurance of his 
intentions, his father, who was uneasy about the 
matter, looked in again, and as Susan, with tears in 
her eyes, pointed to the children, the good man said, 
“ By my faith, the boy has found the way to cut the 
knot — or rather to tie it. What say you, dame ? 
If we do not get a portion for him, we do not have to 
give one with her, so it is as broad as it is long, and she 
remains our dear child. Only listen, children, you are 
both old enough to keep a secret. Not one word of all 
this matter is to be breathed to any soul till I bid you.” 

“ Not to Diccon,” said Humfrey decidedly. 

“ Nor to Antony ? ” asked Cis wistfully. 

“ To Antony ? No, indeed ! What has he to do 
with it ? Now, to your beds, children, and forget ail 
about this tale.” 

“ There, Humfrey,” broke out Cis, as soon as they 
were alone together, “ Huckstress Tibbott is a wise 
V'oman, whatever thou mayest say.” 

“ How ? ” said Humfrey. 

“ Miudst thou not the day when I ciossed her liana 
with the tester father gave me ? ” 


V.l THE HUCKSTEIUNG WOMAN. 7‘i 

“ Wlien mother whipped thee for listening to for- 
tune-tellers, and wasting thy substance. Ay, I mind 
it well,” said Humfrey, “ and how thou didst stand 
simpering at her pack of lies, ere mother made thee 
sing another tune.” 

“ Nay, Humfrey, they were no lies, though I thought 
them so then. She said I was not what I seemed, 
and that the Talbots’ kennel would not always hold 
one of the noble northern eagles. So Humfrey, sweet, 
Humfrey, thou must not make too sure of wedding 
me.” 

“ Til w’ed thee though all the lying old gipsy-wives 
in England wore their false throats out in screeching 
out that I shall not,” cried Humfrey, 

“ But she must have known,” said Cis, in an awe- 
struck voice ; “ the spirits must have spoken with her, 
and said that I am none of the Talbots.” 

“ Hath mother heard this ? ” asked Humfrey, re- 
coiling a little, but never thinking of the more plan 
sible explanation. 

“ Oh no, no ! tell her not, Humfrey, tell her not. 
She said she would whip me again if ever I talked 
ajzain of the follies that the fortune-telling woman had 
gulled me with, for if they were not deceits, they were 
worse. And, thou seest, they are worse, Humfrey ! ” 

With which awe-strickeu conclusion the children 
went off to bed- 


72 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOBK 


[UHAP. 


CHAPTEE VI. 

THE BEWITCHED WHISTLE. 

A vCHiD’s point of view is so different from that of a 
gro^rn person, that the discovery did not make half 
so ranch difference to Cis as her adopted parents 
expected. In fact it was like a dream to her. She 
found her daily life and her surroundings the same, 
and her chief interest was — at least apparently — how 
soon she could escape from psalter and seam, to play 
with little Ned, and look out for the elder boys retui-n- 
ing, or watch for the Scottish Queen taking her daily 
ride. Once, prompted by Antony, Cis had made a 
beautiful nosegay of lilies and held it up to the Queen 
when she rode in at the gate on her return from 
Buxton. She had been rewarded by the sweetest of 
smiles, but Captain Talbot had said it must never 
happen again, or he should be accused of letting billets 
pass in posies. The whole place was pervaded, in 
fact, by an atmosphere of suspicion, and the vigilance, 
which might have been endurable for a few months, was 
wearing the spirits and temper of all concerned, now 
that it had already lasted for seven or eight years, and 
there seemed no end to it. Moreover, in spite of all 
care, it every now and thra became apparent that 
Queen Mary had some communication with the outer 


THE BEWITCHED WHISTLE. 


73 


VI] 

world which no one could trace, though the effects 
endangered the life of Queen Elizabeth, the peace of 
the kingdom, and the existence of the English Church. 
The blame always fell upon Lord Shrewsbury ; and 
who could wonder that he was becoming captiously 
suspicious, and soured in temper, so that even such 
faithful kinsmen as Eichard Talbot could sometimes 
hardly bear with him, and became punctiliously anxious 
that there should not be the smallest loophole for cen- 
sure of the conduct of himself and his family ? 

The person on whom Master Goatley’s visit had left 
the most impression seemed to be Humfrey. On the 
one hand, his father’s words had made him enter into his 
situation of trust and loyalty, and perceive something 
of the constant sacrifice of seK to duty that it required, 
and, on the other hand, he had assumed a position 
towards Cis of which he in some degree felt the force. 
There was nothing in the opinions of the time to 
render their semi-betrothal ridiculous. At the Manor- 
house itself, Gilbert Talbot and Mary Cavendish had 
been married when no older than he was ; half their 
contemporaries were already plighted, and the only 
difference was that in the present harassing state of 
surveillance in which every one lived, the parents 
tliought that to avow the secret so long kept might 
bring about inquiry and suspicion, and they therefore 
wished it to be guarded till the marriage could be 
contracted. As Cis developed, she had looks and tones 
which so curiously liarmonised, now with the Scotch, 
now with the French element in the royal captive’s 
suite, and which made Captain Eichard believe that 
she must belong to some of the families who seemed 
amphibious between the two courts ; and her identi- 
fication as a Seaton, a Elemyng, a Beatoun, or as a mem- 


74 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CH..VP. 

ber of any of the families attached to the losing cause, 
would only involve her in exile and disgrace. Besides, 
there was every reason to think her an orphan, and a 
distant kinsman was scarcely likely to give her such a 
home as she had at Bridgefield, where she had always 
been looked on as a daughter, and was now regarded 
as doubly their own in right of their son. So Hum- 
frey was permitted to consider her as peculiarly his 
own, and he exerted this right of property by a 
certain jealousy of Antony Babington which amused 
his parents, and teased the young lady. Nor was 
he wholly actuated by the jealousy of proprietor- 
ship, for he knew the devotion with which Antony 
regarded Queen Mary, and did not wholly trust him. 
His sense of honour and duty to his father’s trust was 
one thing, Antony’s knight-errantry to the beautiful 
captive was another; each boy thought himself strictly 
honourable, while they moved in parallel lines and 
could not understand one another ; yet, with the 
reserve of childhood, all that passed between them 
was a secret, till one afternoon when loud angiy 
sounds and suppressed sobs attracted Mistress Susan 
to the garden, where she found Cis crying bitterly, 
and little Diccon staring eagerly, while a pitched 
battle was going on between her eldest son and young 
Antony Babington, who were pommelling each other 
too furiously to perceive her approach. 

“ Boys ! boys ! fie for shame,” she cried, with a 
hand on the shoulder of each, and they stood apart 
at her touch, though still fiercely looking at one 
another. 

“ See what spectacles you have made of yourselves !” 
she continued. “ Is this your treatment of your guest, 
Humfrey ? How is my Lord’s page to show himself at 


VI.] THE BEWITCHED WHISTLE. 75 

Chat'worth to-morrow with such an eye ? What is it 
all about?” 

Both combatants eyed each other in sullen silence. 

“ Tell me, Cis. Tell me, Diccon. I will know, or 
you shall have the rod as well as Humfrey.” 

Diccon, who was still in the era of timidity, in- 
stead of secretiveness, spoke out. “ He,” indicating his 
brotlier, “wanted the packet.” 

“ What packet ?” exclaimed the mother, alarmed. 

“ The packet that he (another nod towards Antony) 
wanted Cis to give that witch in case she came while 
he is at Chatsworth.” 

“ It was the dog- whistle,” said Cis. “ It hath no 
sound in it, and Antony would have me change it for 
him, because Huckster Tibbott may not come within 
the gates. I did not want to do so ; I fear Tibbott, 
and when Humfrey found me crying he fell on 
Antony. So blame him not, mother.” 

“ If Humfrey is a jealous churl, and Cis a little 
fool, there’s no help for it,” said Antony, disdainfully 
turning his back on his late adversary. 

“ Then let me take charge of this whistle,” re- 
turned the lady, moved by the universal habit of 
caution, but Antony sprang hastily to intercept her 
as she was taking from the little girl a small paper 
packet tied round with coloured yarn, but he was not 
in time, and could only exclaim, “ Nay, nay, madam, I 
will not trouble you. It is nothing.” 

“Master Babington,” said Susan firmly, “you know 
as well as I do that no packet may pass out of the 
park unopened. If you wished to have the whistle 
changed you should have brought it uncovered. I am 
Sony for the discourtesy, and ask your pardon, but this 
parcel may not pass.” 


76 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[OIIAP, 

“ Then,” said Antony, with difficulty repressing 
something much more passionate and disrespectful, “ let 
me have it again.” 

“ Nay, Master Babington, that would not suit with 
my duty.” 

The boy altogether lost his temper. “Duty! duty!” 
he cried. “ I am sick of the word. All it means is a 
mere feigned excuse for prying and spying, and beset- 
ting the most beautiful and unhappy princess in the 
world for her true faith and true right I” 

“Master Antony Babington,” said Susan gravely, 
“ you had better take care what you are about. If 
tliose words of yours had been spoken in my Lord’s 
hearing, they would bring you worse than the rod or 
bread and water.” 

“ What care I what I suffer for such a Queen ?” 
exclaimed Antony. 

“ Suffering is a different matter from saying ‘ What 
care I,’ ” returned the lady, “ as I fear you will learn. 
Master Antony.” 

“ 0 mother ! sweet mother,” said Cis, “ you will 
not tell of him 1” — but mother shook her head. 

“ Prithee, dear mother,” added Humfrey, seeing no 
relenting in her countenance, “ I did but mean to hinder 
Cis from being maltreated and a go-between in this 
traffic with an old witch, not to bring Tony into trouble.” 

“ His face is a tell-tale, Humfrey,” said Susan. “ I 
meant ere now to have put a piece of beef on it 
Come in, Antony, and let me wash it.” 

“ Thank you, madam, I need nothing here,” said 
Antony, stalking proudly off ; while Humfrey, exclaim- 
ing “ Don’t be an ass, Tony 1 — Mother, no one would 
care tD ask what we had given one another black eyes 
for in a friendly way,” tried to hold him back, and he 


VI.J THE BEWITCHED WHISTEE. 7^ 

did linger when Cis added her persuasions to him not 
to return the spectacle he was at present. 

“If this lady will promise not to betray an un- 
fortunate Queen,” he said, as if permission to deal with 
his bruises were a great reward, 

“Oh! you foolish boy!” exclaimed Mistress Talbot, 
“ yc u were never meant for a plotter 1 you have your- 
self betrayed that you are her messenger.” 

“ And I am not ashamed of it,” said Antony, hold- 
ing his head high, “ Madam, madam, if you have 
surprised this from me, you are the more bound not to 
betray her. Think, lady, if you were shut up from 
your children and friends, would you not seek to send 
tidings to them ?” 

“ Child, child 1 Heaven knows I am not blaming 
the poor lady within there. I am only thinking what 
is right.” 

“ Well,” said Antony, somewhat hopefuUy, “ if that 
be all, give me back the packet, or tear it up, if you 
will, and there can be no harm done.” 

“ Oh, do so, sweet mother,” entreated Cis, earnestly ; 
“ he wiU never bid me go to Tibbott again.” 

“ Ay,” said Humfrey, “ then no tales will be told.” 

For even he, with all his trustworthiness, or indeed 
because of it, could not bear to bring a comrade to 
disgrace ; but the dilemma was put an end to by the 
sudden appearance on the scene of Captain Eichard 
himself, demanding the cause of the disturbance, and 
whether his sons had been misbehaving to their guest. 

“ Dear sir, sweet father, do not ask,” entreated Cis, 
springing to him, and taking his hand, as she was 
privileged to do ; “ mother has come, and it is all made 
up and over now.” 

Richard Talbot, however, had seen the packet 


78 


UNKNOWN TO IIISTOKY. 


[CHAP. 

which his wife was holding, and her anxious, perplexed 
countenance, and the perilous atmosphere of suspicion 
around him made it incumbent on him to turn to her 
and say, “What means this, mother? Is it as Cis 
would have me believe, a mere childish quarrel that I 
may pass over ? or what is tliis packet ?” 

“ Master Babington saith it is a dog- whistle which 
he was leaving in charge with Cis to exchange for 
another with Huckstress Tibbott,” she answered. 

“ Feel, — nay, open it, and see if it be not, sir,” 
cried Antony. 

“ I doubt not that so it is,” said the captain ; “ but 
you know. Master Babington, that it is the duty of all 
here in charge to let no packet pass the gate which 
has not been viewed by my lord’s officers.” 

“ Then, sir, I will take it back again,” said Antony, 
with a vain attempt at making his brow frank and 
clear. 

Instead of answering. Captain Talbot took the 
knife from his girdle, and cut in twain the yarn that 
bound the packet. There was no doubt about the 
whistle being there, nor was there anything written on 
the wrapper ; but perhaps the anxiety in Antony’s eye, 
or even the old association with boatswains, incited 
Mr. Talbot to put the whistle to his lips. Not a 
sound would come forth. He looked in, and saw what 
led him to blow with all his force, when a white roll 
of paper protruded, and on another blast fell out into 
his hand. 

He held it up as he found it, and looked full at 
Antony, who exclaimed in much agitation, “To keep 
out the dust. Only to keep out the dust. It is all 
gibberish — from my old writing-books.” 

“ That will we see,” said Eichard very gravely. 


THE BEWITCHED WHISTLE. 


79 


VL] 

“ Mis!' ress, be pleased to give this young gentleman 
some water tc wash his face, and attend to his bruises, 
keeping him in the guest-chamber without speech 
from any one until I return. Master Babinjton, I 
counsel you to submit quietly. I wish, and my Lord 
will wish, to spare his ward as much scandal as pos- 
sible, and if this be what you say it is, mere gibberish 
from your exercise-books, you will be quit for chastise- 
ment for a forbidden act, which has brought you into 
suspicion. If not, it must be as my Lord thinks good.” 

Antony made no entreaties. Perhaps he trusted 
that what was unintelligible to himself might pass for 
gibberish with others ; perhaps tlie headache caused 
by Humfrey’s fists was assisting to produce a state of 
sullen indifference after his burst of eager chivalry; at 
any rate he let Mistress Talbot lead him away without 
resistance. The other children would have followed, 
but their father detained them to hear the particulars 
of the commission and the capture. Eichard desired 
to know from his son whether he had any reason for 
suspecting underhand measures ; and when Humfrey 
looked down and hesitated, added, “ On your obedience, 
boy; this is no slight matter.” 

“You will not beat Cis, father?” said Humfrey. 

“Wherefore should I beat her, save for doing 
errands that yonder lad should have known better 
than to thrust on her ?” 

“ Nay, sir, ’tis not for that ; but my mother said 
she should be beaten if ever she spake of the fortune 
yonder Tibbott told her, and we are sure that she — 
Tibbott I mean — is a witch, and knows more than sh« 
ought.” 

“ What mean’st thou ? Tell me, children ; ” and 
Cis, nothing loath, since she was secunjd from the 


80 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

beating, related the augury which had left so deep 
an impression on her, Humfrey bearing witness that it 
was before they knew themselves of Cicely’s history. 

“ But that is not all,” added Cicely, seeing Mr. 
Talbot less impressed than she expected by these 
supernatural powers of divination. “ She can change 
from a woman to a man !” 

“ In sooth !” exclaimed Eichard, startled enough by 
this information. 

“Yea, father,” said Cicely, “Faithful Ekins, the 
carrier’s boy, saw her, in doublet and hose, and a 
tawny cloak, going along the road to Chesterfield. He 
knew her by the halt in her left leg.” 

“ Ha !” said Eichard, “ and how long hast thou 
known this ?” 

“ Only yestermorn,” said Cis ; “ it was that which 
made me so much afraid to have any dealings with 
her.” 

“ She shall trouble thee no more, my little wench,” 
said Eichard in a tone that made Humfrey cry out 
joyously, 

“ 0 father ! sweet father ! wilt thou duck her for a 
witch ? Sink or swim ! that will be rare ! ” 

“ Hush, hush ! foolish lad,” said Eichard, “ and thou, 
Cicely, take good heed that not a word of all this gets 
abroad. Go to thy mother, child, — nay, I am not 
wroth with thee, little one. Thou hast not done amiss, 
but bear in mind that nought is ever taken out of the 
park without knowledge of me or of thy mother.” 


VII.] 


THE BLAST OF THE WHISTLE. 


81 


CHAPTEE VIL 

THE BLAST OF THE WHISTLE. 

Richard Talbot was of course convinced that witch- 
craft was not likely to be the most serious part of the 
misdeeds of Tibbott the huckstress. Committing 
Antony Babington to the custody of his wife, he sped 
on his way back to the Manor-house, where Lord 
Shrewsbury was at present residing, the Countess 
being gone to view her buildings at Chatsworth, tak- 
ing her daughter Bessie with her. He sent in a 
message desiring to speak to my lord in his privy 
chamber. 

Francis Talbot came to him. “ Is it matter of great 
moment, Dick ?” he said, “ for my father is so fretted 
and chafed, I would faiu not vex him further to-night. 
— What ! know you not ? Here are tidings that my 
lady hath married Bess — yes, Bess Cavendish, in 
secret to my young Lord Lennox, the brother of this 
Queen’s unlucky husband ! How he is to clear himself 
before her Grace of being concerned in it, I know not, 
for though Heaven wots that lie is as innocent as the 
child unborn, she will suspect him !” 

“ I knew she flew high for Mistress Bess,” returned 
Richard. 

“ High ! nothing would serve her save royal blood ! 

G 


82 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[OIIAP 

My poor father says as sure as the lions and Jleur- 
de-lis have come into a family, the headsman’s axe has 
come after them,” 

“ However it is not our family.” 

“ So I tell him, hut it gives him small comfort,” said 
Frank, “ looking as he doth on the Cavendk h hiood as 
his own, and knowing that there will be a mighty coil 
at once with my lady and these two queens. He is 
sore vexed to-night, and saith that never was Earl, not 
to say man, so baited by woman as he, and he bade 
me see whether yours be a matter of such moment 
that it may not wait till morning or be despatched by 
me.” 

“ That is for you to say, IMaster Francis. What 
think you of this for a toy?” as he produced the parcel 
with the whistle and its contents, “ I went home 
betimes to-day, as you know, and found my boy 
Humfrey had just made young Master Babington 
taste of his fists for trying to make our little wench 
pass this packet to yonder huckster- woman who was 
succoured some months back by the Queen of Scots.” 

Francis Talbot silently took the whistle and un- 
rolled the long narrow strip of paper. “ This is the 
cipher,” said he, “the cipher used in corresponding 
with her French kin ; Phillipps the decipherer showed 
me the trick of it when he was at Tutbury in the time 
of the Duke of Norfolk’s business. Soh ! your son 
hath done good service, liichard. That lad hath been 
tampered with then, I thought he was over thick with 
the lady in the lodge. Where is he, the young 
traitor ?” 

“ At Bridgefield, under my wife’s ward, having his 
bruises attended to. I would not bring him up here till 
I knew what my Lord would have done with him. He 


v^ll.] THE BLAST OF THE WHISTLE. 82 

is but a child, and no doubt was wrought with by 
sweet looks, and I trust my Lord \Aill not be hard 
with him.” 

“ If my father had hearkened to me, he should never 
have been here,” said Francis. “ His father was an 
honest man, but his mother was, I find, a secret 
recusant, and when she died, young Antony was 
quite old enough to have sucked in the poison. You 
did well to keep him, Eichard ; he ought not to return 
hither again, either in ward or at liberty.” 

“ If he were mine, I would send him to school,” said 
Eichard, “ where the masters and the lads would soon 
drive out of him all dreams about captive princesses 
and seminary priests to boot. For, Cousin Francis, 1 
would have you to know that my children say there is 
a rumour that this woman Tibbott the huckstress hath 
oeen seen in a doublet and hose near Chesterfield.” 

“ The villain ! AVhen is she looked for here again ?” 

“ Anon, I should suppose, judging by the boy leav- 
ing this charge with Cis in case she should come while 
he is gone to Chatsworth.” 

“ We will take order as to that,” said Francis, com- 
pressing his lips ; “ I know you will take heed, cousin, 
that she, or he, gets no breath of warning. I should 
not wonder if it were Parsons himself!” and he un- 
folded the scroll with the air of a man seeking to 
confirm his triumph. 

“ Can you njake anything of it ?” asked Eichard, 
struck by its resemblance to another scroll laid up 
among his wife’s treasures. 

“ I cannot teU, they are not matters to be read in 
an hour,” said Francis Talbot, “ moreover, there is one 
in use for the English traitors, hei friends, and another 
for the French. This looks like the French sort. Let 


84 


UNKNOW TO HISTORY. 


[CHA?. 

me see, they are read by taking the third letter in each 
second word.” Francis Talbot, somewhat proud of his 
proficiency, and perfectly certain of the trustworthiness 
of his cousin Eichard, went on puzzling out the ciphered 
letters, making Eichard set each letter down as he 
picked it out, and trying whether they would make 
sense in French or English. Both understood French, 
having learned it in their page days, and kept it up by 
intercourse with the French suite. Francis, however, 
had to try two or three methods, which, being a young 
man, perhaps he was pleased to display, and at last 
he hit upon the right, which interpreted the apparent 
gibberish of the scroll — excepting that the names of 
persons were concealed under soubriquets which 
Francis Talbot could not always understand — but 
the following sentence by and by became clear : — 
^ Quand le matelot vient des marais, un feu pent 
edater dans la meute et dans la meUe “ When the 
sailor lands from the fens, a fire miglit easily break 
out in the dog -kennel, and in the confusion” 
(name could not be read) “ could carry off the tercel 
gentle.” 

“ La meute f said Francis, “ that is their term for 
the home of us Talbots, and the sailor in the fens is 
this Don John of Austria, who means, after conquering 
the Dutchmen, to come and set free this tercel gentle, 
as she calls herself, and play the inquisitor upon us. 
On my honour, Dick, your boy has played the man in 
making this discovery. Keep the young traitor fast, 
and take down a couple of yeomen to lay hands on 
this same Tibbott as she calls herself.” 

“ If I remember right,” sahl Eichard, “ she was 
said to be the sister or aunt to one of the grooms oi 
prickers.” 


VTl.] THE BLAST OF THE WHISTLE. 8t 

“ So ic was, Guy Norman, methinks. Bdike he 
was the very fellow to set fire to our kennel. Yea, 
we must secure him. I’ll see to that, and you shall 
lay this scroll before my father meantime, Dick. Why 
to fall on such a trail will restore his spirits, and win 
back her Grace to believe in his honesty, if my lady’s 
tricks should have made her doubtful.” 

Off went Francis with great alacrity, and ere long 
the Earl was present with Eichard. The long light 
beard was now tinged with gray, and there were deep 
lines round the mouth and temples, betraying how the 
long anxiety was telling on him, and rendering him 
suspicious and querulous. “ Soh ! Eichard Talbot,” 
was his salutation, “ what’s the coil now ? Can a man 
never be left in peace in his own house, between 
queens and ladies, plots and follies, but his own kins 
folk and retainers must come to him on every petty 
broil among the lads ! I should have thought your 
boy and young Babington might fight out their quarrels 
alone without vexing a man that is near driven dis- 
tracted as it is.” 

“ I grieve to vex your lordship,” said Eichard, 
standing bareheaded, “ but Master Francis thought this 
scroll worthy of your attention. This is the manner 
in which he deciphered it.” 

“ Scrolls, I am sick of scrolls,” said the Earl testily. 
" What ! is it some order for saying mass, — or to get 
some new Popish image or a skein of silk ? I wear 
my eyes out reading such as that, and racking my 
brains for some hidden meaning !” 

And falling on Francis’s first attempt at copying, 
he was scornful of the whole, and had nearly thrown 
the matter aside, but when he lit at last on the sen- 
tence ^bout burning the meute and carrying off the 


86 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

tercel gentle, his brow grew dark indeed, and his 
inquiries came thickly one upon the other, both as to 
Antony Babington and the huckstering woman. 

In the midst, Frank Talbot returned with the 
tidings that the pricker Guy Norman was nowhere 
to be found. He had last been seen by his comrades 
about the time that Captain Eichard had returned to 
the Manor-house. Probably he had taken alarm on 
seeing him come back at that unusual Lour, and had 
gone to carry the warning to his supposed aunt. This 
last intelligence made the Earl decide on going down at 
once to Bridgefield to examine young Babington before 
there was time to miss his presence at the lodge, or 
to hold any communication with him. Frank caused 
horses to be brought round, and the Earl rode down with 
Eichard by a shaded alley in an ordinary cloak and hat. 

My Lord’s appearance at Bridgetield was a rarer 
and more awful event than was my Lady’s, and if 
Mistress Susan had been warned beforehand, there is 
no saying how at the head of her men and maids she 
would have scrubbed and polished the floors, and 
brushed the hangings and cushions. What then were 
her feelings when the rider, who dismounted from his 
little hackney as unpretendingly as did her husband 
in the twilight court, proved to have my Lord’s long 
beard and narrow face ! 

Curtseying her lowest, and with a feeling of con- 
sternation and pity as she thought of the orphan boy, 
she accepted his greeting with duteous welcome as he 
said, “ Kinswoman, I am come to cumber you, whilst 
I inquire into this matter. I give your son thanks 
for the honesty and faithfulness he hath shown in the 
matter, as befitted his father’s son. I should wivsh 
myself, to examine the springald.” 


THE BLAST OF ThE WHISTLE. 


87 


m] 

Humfrey was accordingly called, and, privately 
admonislied by bis father that he must not allow any 
scruples about bringing his playmate into trouble to 
lead him to withhold his evidence, cr shrink from 
telling the whole truth as he knew it, Humfrey 
accordingly stood before the Earl and made his replies 
a little sullenly but quite straightforwardly. He had 
prevented the whistle from being given to his sister 
for the huckstress because the woman was a witch, 
who frightened her, and moreover he knew it was 
against rules. Did he suspect that the whistle came 
from the Queen of Scots ? 

He looked startled, and asked if it were so indeed, 
and when again commanded to say why he had 
thought it possible, he replied that he knew Antony 
thought the Queen of Scots a fair and gracious lady. 

Did he believe that Antony ever had communica- 
tion with her or her people unheard by others ? 

“ Assuredly ! Wherefore not, when he carried my 
Lady Countess’s messages ?” 

Lord Shrewsbury bent his brow, but did not further 
pursue this branch of the subject, but demanded of 
Humfrey a description of Tibbott, huckster or witch, 
man or woman. 

“She wears a big black hood and muffler,” said 
Humfrey, “ and hath a long hooked stick.” 

“ I asked thee not of her muffler, boy, but of her 
person.” 

“ She hath pouncet boxes and hawks’ bells, and 
dog-whistles in her basket,” proceeded Humfrey, but 
> as the Earl waxed impatient, and demanded whether 
no one could give him a clearer account, Eichard bade 
Humfrey call his mother. 

She, however, could say nothing as to the woman’s 


88 


UNKNOWN TO Hl^TqRT. * 


[chap. 


appearance. She had gone to Norman’s cottage to offer 
lier services after the supposed accident, but had been 
told that tl e potticary of the Queen of Scots liad 
undertaken her cure, and had only seen her huddled 
up in a heap of rags, asleep. Since her recovery the 
woman had been several times at Bridgefield, but it 
had struck the mistress of the house that tliere was 
a certain avoidance of direct communication with her, 
and a preference for the servants and children. This 
Susan had ascribed to fear that she should be warned 
off for her fortune-telling propensities, or the children’s 
little bargains interfered with. All she could answer 
for was that she had once seen a huge pair of grizzled 
eyebrows, with light eyes under them, and that the 
woman, if woman she were, was tall, and bent a good 
deal upon a hooked stick, which supported her limping 
steps. Cicely could say little more, except that the 
witch had a deep awesome voice, like a man, and a 
long nose terrible to look at. Indeed, there seemed to 
have been a sort of awful fascination about her to aU 
the children, who feared her yet ran after her. 

Antony was then sent for. It was not easy to 
judge of the expression of his disfigured countenance, 
but when thus brought to bay he threw off all tokens 
of compunction, and stood boldly before the Earl. 

“So, Master Babiugton, I find you have been be- 
traying the trust I placed in you ” 

“What trust, my Lord?” said Antony, his bright 
blue eyes looking back into those of the nobleman. 

“ The cockerel crows loud,” said the Earl. “ What 
trust, quotha! Is there no trust implied in the com- 
ing and going of one of my household, when such a 
charge is committed to me and mine ?” 

“No one ever gave me any charge,” said Antony. 


VII.] The blast of the avhistle. 

" Dost thou bandy words, thou froward imp ?” said 
the Earl. “ Thou hast not the conscience to deny that 
there was no honesty in smuggling forth a letter thus 
hidden. Deny it not. The treasonable cipher hath 
been read !” 

“ I knew nought of what was in it,” said the boy. 

“ I believe thee there, but thou didst know that it 
was foully disloyal to me and to her Majesty to bear 
forth secret letters to disguised traitors. I am willing 
to believe that the smooth tongue which hath deluded 
many a better man than thou hath led thee astray, 
and I am willing to deal as lightly with thee as may 
be, so thou wilt tell me openly all thou knowest of 
this infamous plot.” 

“ I know of no plot, sir.” 

“ They w'ould scarce commit the knowledge to the 
like of him,” said Kichard Talbot. 

“ May be not,” said Lord Shrewsbury, looking at 
him with a glance that Antony thought contemptuous, 
and wliich prompted him to exclaim, “ And if I did 
know of one, you may be assured I would never betray 
it were I torn with wild horses.” 

“ Betray, sayest thou !” returned the Earl. “ Thou 
hast betrayed my confidence, Antony, and hast gone as 
far as in thee lies to betray thy Queen.” 

“ My Queen is Mary, the lawful Queen of us all,” 
replied Antony, boldly. 

“ Ho ! Sayest thou so ? It is then as thou didst 
trow, cousin, the foolish lad hath been tampered with 
by the honeyed tongue. I need not ask thee from whom 
thou hadst this letter, boy. We have read it and 
know tiie foul treason therein. Thou wilt never return 
to the castle again, but for thy father’s sake thou shalt 
be dealt with less sternly, if thou wilt tell who this 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


90 


[chap. 


woman is, and how many of these toys thou hast given 
to her, if thou knowest who she is.” 

But Antony closed his lips resolutely. In fact, 
Eichard suspected him of being somewhat flattered by 
being the cause of such a commotion, (aid actually 
accused of so grand and manly a crime as high treason. 
The Earl could extract no word, and finally sentenced 
him to remain at Bridgefield, shut up in his own 
chamber till he could be dealt with. The lad walked 
away in a dignified manner, and the Earl, holding up 
his hands, half amused, half vexed, said, “ So the spell 
is on that poor lad likewise. What shall I do with 
him ? An orphan boy too, and mine old friend’s son.” 

“ With your favour, my Lord,” said Eichard, “ I 
should say, send him to a grammar school, where 
among lads of his own age, the dreams about captive 
princesses might be driven from him by hard blowi 
and merry games.” 

“That may scarce serve,” said the Earl rather severely, 
for public schools were then held beneath the dignity of 
both the nobility and higher gentry. “ I may, however, 
send him to study at Cambridge under some trusty 
pedagogue. Back at the castle I cannot have him, so 
must I cumber you with him, my good kinswoman, 
until his face have recovered your son’s lusty chastise- 
ment. Also it may be well to keep him here tUl we 
can lay hands on this same huckster- woman, since 
there may be need to confront him with her. It were 
best if you did scour the country toward Chesterfield 
for her, while Frank went to York.” 

Having thus issued his orders, the Earl took a 
gracious leave of the lady, mounted his horse, and 
rode back to Sheffield, dispensing with the attendance 
of his kinsman, who had indeed to prepare for an early 


THE BLAST OF THE WHISTLE. 


91 


VII ] 

start the next morning, when he meant to take 
Humfrey with him, as not unlikely to recognise the 
woman, though he could not describe her. 

“ The boy merits well to go forth with me,” said 
he, " He hath done yeoman’s service, and proved 
himself staunch and faithful.” 

“ Was there matter in that scroll ?” asked Susan. 

“ Only such slight matter as burning down the 
Talbots’ kennel, while Don John of Austria is landing 
on the coast.” 

“ God forgive them, and defend us !” sighed Susan, 
turning pale. “Was that in the cipher?” 

“ Ay, in sooth, but fear not, good wife. Much is 
purposed that ne’er comes to pass. I doubt me if the 
ship be built that is to carry the Don hither.” 

“ I trust that Antony knew not of the wickedness ?” 

“ Not he. His is only a dream out of the romances 
the lads love so well, of beauteous princesses to be 
Ireed, and the like.” 

“ But the woman !” 

“ Yea, that lies deeper. What didst thou say of 
her ? Wherefore do the children call her a witch ? Is 
it only that she is gxim and ugly?” 

“ I trow there is more cause than that,” said Susan. 
“ It may be that I should have taken more heed to 
their babble at first ; but I have questioned Cis while 
you were at the lodge, and I find that even before 
Mate Goatley spake here, this Tibbott had told the 
child of her being of lofty race in the north, alien to 
the Talbots’ kennel, holding out to her presages of 
some princely destiny.” 

" That bodeth ill !” said Richard, thoughtfully. 
‘ W^ife, my soul misgives me that the hand of 
Cuthbert Langston is in this.” 


92 UNKNOWN TO HISTOUY. 

Susan started. The idea chimed in with Tibbott’s 
avoidance of her scrutiny, and also with a certain 
vague sense she had had of having seen those eyes 
before. So light-complexioned a man would be easily 
disguised, and the halt was accounted for by a report 
that he had had a bad fall when riding to join in the 
Eising in the North. Nor could there now be any 
doubt that he was an ardent partisan of the imprisoned 
Mary, while Eichard had always known his inclination 
to intrigue. She could only agree with her husband’s 
opinion, and ask what he would do. 

“My duty must be done, kin or no kin,” said 
Eichard, “ that is if I find him ; but I look not to do 
that, since Norman is no doubt off to warn him.” 

“ I marvel whether he hath really learnt who our 
Cis can be ?” 

“ Belike not ! The hint woidd only have been 
thrown out to gain power over her.” 

“ Said you that you read the cipher ?” 

“ Master Frank did so.” 

“ Would it serve you to read our scroll ?” 

“ Ah, woman ! woman ! Why can thy kind never 
let well alone ? I have sufficient on my hands without 
reading of scrolls !” 

Humfrey’s delight was extreme when he found that 
he was to ride forth with his father, and half-a-dozen 
of the earl’s yeomen, in search of the supposed witch. 
They traced her as far as Chesterfield ; but having met 
the carrier’s waggon on the way, th(\y carefully 
examined Faithful Ekins on his report, but all the 
youth was clear about was the halt and the orange 
tawny cloak, and after entering Chesterfield, no one 
knew anything of these tokens. There was a large 
village belonging to a family of recusants, not far off, 


THE CLAST OP THE WHISTLE. 


93 


vn.] 

where the pursuers generally did lose sight of suspicious 
persons; and, perhaps, Eichard was relieved, though 
his son was greatly chagrined. 

The good captain had a sufficient regard for his 
kinsman to he unwilling to have to unmask him as a 
traitor, and to be glad that he should have effected an 
escape, so that, at least, it should be others who should 
detect him — if Langston indeed it were. 

His next charge was to escort young Babington to 
Cambridge, and deliver him up to a tutor of his lord- 
ship’s selection, who might draw the Popish fancies out 
of him. 

Meantime, Antony had been kept close to the 
house and garden, and not allowed any intercourse 
with any of the young people, save Humfrey, except 
when the master or mistress of the house was present ; 
but he did not want for occupation, for Master Snig- 
gius came down, and gave him a long chapter of the 
Book of Proverbs — chiefly upon loyalty, in the Septua- 
gint, to learn by heart, and translate into Latin and 
English as his Saturday’s and Sunday’s occupation, 
under pain of a flogging, which was no light thing from 
the hands of that redoubted dominie. 

Young Babington was half - flattered and half- 
frightened at the commotion he had excited. “ Am I 
going to the Tower ?” he asked, in a low voice, awe- 
stricken, yet not without a certain ring of self-import- 
ance, when he saw his mails brought down, and was 
bidden to put on his boots and his travelling dress. 

And Captain Talbot had a cruel satisfaction in 
replying, “ No, Master Babington ; the Tower is not 
for refractory boys. You are going to your school- 
master.” 

But where the school was to be Eidiard kept an 


94 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap 

absolute secret by special desire, in oider that no com- 
munication should be kept up through any of the 
household. He was to avoid Chatsworth, and to return 
as soon as possible to endeavour to trace the supposed 
huckster-woman at Chesterfield. 

When once away from home, he ceased to treat 
young Babington as a criminal, but rode in a friendly 
manner with him through lanes and over moors, till 
the young fellow began to thaw towards him, and even 
went so far as to volunteer one day that he would not 
have brought Mistress Cicely into the matter if there 
had been any other sure way of getting the letter 
delivered in his absence. 

“Ah, boy!” returned Eichard, “when once we 
swerve from the open and direct paths, there is no saying 
into what tangles we may bring ourselves and others.” 

Antony winced a little, and said, “ Whoever says I 
lied, lies in his throat.” 

“No one hath said thou wert false in word, but 
how as to thy deed ? ” 

“ Sir,” said Antony, “ surely when a high emprise 
and great right is to be done, there is no need to halt 
over such petty quibbles.” 

“ Master Babington, no great right was ever done 
through a little wrong. Depend on it, if you cannot 
aid without a breach of trust, it is the sure sign that 
it is not the will of God that you should be the one to 
do it.” 

Captain Talbot mused whether he should convince 
or only weary the lad by an argument he had once 
heard in a sermon, that the force of Satan’s temptation 
to our blessed Lord, when showing Him all the king- 
doms of the world, must have been the absolute and 
immediate vanishing of all kinds of evil, by a voluntaiy 


THE BLAST OF THE WHISTLE. 


95 


vil] 

abdication on the part of the Prince of this world, in- 
stead not only of the coming anguish of the strife, but 
of the long, long, often losing, battle which has been 
waging ever since. Yet for this great achievement He 
would not commit the moment’s sin. He was just about 
to begin when Antony broke in, “ Then, sir, you do 
deem it a great wrong ?” 

“ That I leave to wiser heads than mine,” returned 
the sailor. “ My duty is to obey my Lord, his duty is 
to obey her Grace. That is all a plain man needs to 
see.” 

“ But an if the true Queen be thus mewed up, sir ?” 
asked Antony. Eichard was too wise a man to threaten 
the suggestion down as rank treason, well knowing that 
thus he should never root it out. 

“ Look you here, Antony,” he said ; “ who ought 
to reign is a question of birth, such as neither of us 
can understand nor judge. But we know thus much, 
that her Grace, Queen Elizabeth, hath been crowned and 
anointed and received oaths of fealty as her due, and 
that is quite enough for any honest man.” 

“Even when she keeps in durance the Queen, who 
came as her guest in dire distress ?” 

“ Nay, Master Antony, you are not old enough to 
remember that the durance began not until the Queen 
of Scots tried to form a party for herself among the 
English liegemen. And didst thou know, thou simple 
lad, what the letter bore, which thou didst carry, and 
what it would bring on this peaceful land ?” 

Antony looked a little startled when he heard of 
the burning of the kennel, but he averred that Don 
John was a gallant prince. 

“ I have seen mor(! than one gallant Spaniard undei 
whose power I should grieve to see any friend of mine.” 


96 


UNKNOWN TO ni&!TORY. 


[chap 

All the rest of the way Eicliard Talbot entertained 
the young gentleman with stories of his own voyages 
and adventures, into which he managed to bring traits 
of Spanish cruelty and barbarity as shown in the Low 
Countries, such «is, without actually drawing the 
moral every time, might show what was to be ex- 
pected if Mary of Scotland and Don John of Austria 
were to reign over England, armed with the Inquisition. 

Antony asked a good many questions, and when he 
found that the captain had actually been an eye-witness 
of the state of a country liarried by the Spaniards, he 
seemed a good deal struck. 

“ I tliink if I had the training of him I could make 
a loyal Euglishman of him yet,” said Eichard Talbot 
to his wife on his return. “ But I fear me there is 
that in his heart and his conscience which wiU only 
grow, while yonder sour-faced doctor, with whom I had 
to leave him at Cambridge, preaches to him of the 
perdition of Pope and Papists.” 

“If his mother were indeed a concealed Papist,” 
said Susan, “ such sermons will only revolt the poor 
child.” 

“ Yea, truly. If my Lord wanted to make a plotter 
and a Papist of the boy he could scarce find a better 
means. I myself never could away with yonder lady’s 
blandishments. But when he thinks of her in con- 
trast to yonder divine, it would take a stronger head 
than his not to be led away. The best chance for 
him is that the stir of the world about him may put 
captive princesses out of his head.” 


THE KEY OF THE CIPHER. 


9 ? 


yul] 


CHAPTER Vin. 

THE KEY OF THE CIPHER. 

Where is the man who does not persuade himself that 
when he gratifies his own curiosity he -does so for the 
sake of his womankind ? So Richard Talbot, having 
made his protest, waited two days, but when next he 
had any leisure moments before him, on a Sunday 
evening, he said to his wife, “ Sue, what hast thou done 
with that scroll of Cissy’s ? I trow thou wilt not rest 
till thou art convinced it is but some lying horoscope 
or Popish charm.” 

Susan had in truth been resting in perfect quiet 
ness, being extremely busy over her spinning, so as to 
be ready for the weaver who came round periodically 
to direct the more artistic portions of domestic work. 
However, she joyfully produced the scroll from ‘ the 
depths 'of the casket where she kept her chief treasures, 
and her spindle often paused in its dance as she watched 
her husband over it, with his elbows on the table and 
his hands in his hair, from whence he only removed 
them now and then to set down a letter or two by way 
of experiment. She had to be patient, for she heard 
nothing that night but that he believed it was Erench, 
that the father of deceits himself might be puzzled 
with the thing, and tliat she might, as well ask him 
h 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


98 


[CHAP. 


for his head at once as propose his consulting Master 
Francis. 

The next night he unfolded it with many a groan, 
and would say nothing at all ; but he sat up late and 
waked in early dawn to pore over it again, and on the 
third day of study he uttered a loud exclamation of 
dismay, hut he ordered Susan off to bed in the midst, 
and did not utter anything but a perplexed groan or 
two when he followed her much later. 

It was not till the next night that she heard any- 
thing, and then, in the darkness, he began, “ Susan, 
thou art a good wife and a discreet woman.” 

Perhaps l^er heart leapt as she thought to herself, 
“ At last it is coming, I knew it would !” but she only 
made some innocent note of attention. 

“ Thou hast asked no questions, nor tried to pry 
into this unhappy mystery,” he went on. 

“ I knew you would tell me what was fit for me to 
hear,” she replied. 

“ Fit ! It is fit for no one to hear ! Yet I needs 
must take counsel with thee, and thou hast shown thou 
canst keep a close mouth so far.” 

“ Concerns it our Cissy, husband ?” 

“ Ay does it. Our Cissy, indeed ! Wliat wouldst 
say. Sue, to hear she was daughter to the lady 
yonder.” 

• “ To the Queen of Scots ?” 

“ Hush ! hush !” fairly grasping her to hinder the 
words from being uttered above her breath. 

And her father ?” 

" That villain, Bothwell, of course. Poor lassie, 
she is iU fathered ! ” 

“ You may say so. Is it in the scroll ? ” 

“ Ay ! so far as I can unravel it ; but besides the 


Vi/L] THE KEY OF THE CIPHEK. 9S 

cipher no doubt much was left for the poor woman to 
tell that was lost in the wreck.” 

And he went on to explain that the scroll was a 
letter to the Abbess of Soissons, who was aunt to 
Queen Mary, as was well known, since an open corre- 
spondence was kept up through the French ambassador 
This letter said that “ our trusty Alison Hepburn " 
would tell how in secrecy and distress Queen Mary 
had given birth to this poor child in Lochleven, and 
how she had been conveyed across the lake while only 
a few hours old, after being hastily baptized by the 
name of Bride, one of the patron saints of Scotland. She 
had been nursed in a cottage for a few weeks till the 
Queen had made her first vain attempt to escape, after 
which Mary had decided on sending her with her nurse 
to Dumbarton Castle, whence Lord Flemyng would 
despatch her to France. The Abbess was implored to 
shelter her, in complete ignorance of her birth, until 
such time as her mother should resume her liberty and 
her throne. “ Or if,” the poor Queen said, “ I perish in 
the hands of my enemies, you will deal with her as my 
uncles of Guise and Lorraine think fit, since, should her 
unhappy little brother die in the rude hands of yonder 
traitors, she may bring the true faith back to both 
realms.” 

“Ah !” cried Susan, with a sudden gasp of dismay, as 
she bethought her that the child was indeed heiress to 
both realms after the young King of Scots. “ But has 
there been no quest after her ? Do they deem her lost? ” 

“ No doubt they do. Either all hands were lost in 
the Brid& of Bunbar, or if any of the crew escaped, 
they would report the loss of nurse and child. The 
few who know that the little one was l orn believe her 
to have perished. None will ever ask for her. They 


L..f C. 


100 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [cilAl’ 

deem that she has been at the bottom of the sea these 
twelve years or more,” 

“ And you would still keep the knowledge to our- 
selves ?” asked his wife, in a tone of relief. 

“ I would I knew it not myself ! ” sighed Eichard, 
“ Would that I could blot it out of my mind.” 

“ It were far happier for the poor maid 1 erself ta 
remain no one’s child but ours,” said Susan, 

“ In sooth it is ! A drop of royal blood is in these 
days a mere drop of poison to them that liave the ill 
luck to inherit it. As my lord said the other day, it 
brings the headsman’s axe after it.” 

“ And our boy Humfrey calls himself contracted 
to her ! ” 

“ So long as we let the secret die with us that can 
do her no ill. Happily the wench favours not her 
mother, save sometimes in a certain lordly carriage of 
the head and shoulders. She is like enough to some 
of the Scots retinue to make me think she must take 
her face from her father, the villain, who, some one 
told me, was beetle-browed and swarthy.” 

“ Lives he still ? ” 

“ So ’tis thought, but somewhere in prison in the 
north. There have been no tidings of his death ; but 
my Lady Queen, you’ll remember, treats the marriage as 
nought, and has made offer of herself for the misfortune 
of the Poke of Norfolk, ay, and of this Don John, 
and I know not whom besides.” 

^ She would not have done that had she known 
that our Cis was alive.” 

“ Mayhap she would, mayhap not. I believe my • 
self she would do anything short of disowning hei 
Popery to get out of prison ; but as matters stand I 
doubt me whether Cis ” 


THE KEY OF THE CIPHEK. 


101 


“ The Lady Bride Hepburn,” suggested Susan. 

“ Pshaw, poor child, I misdoubt me whether they 
would own her claim even to that name.” 

“ And they might put her in prison if they did,’' 
said Susan. 

'■ They would be sure to do so, sooner or later. 
Here has my lord been recounting in his trouble about 
my lady’s fine match for her Bess, all that hath come 
of mating with royal blood, the very least disaster 
being poor Lady Mary Grey’s ! Kept in ward for 
life ! It is a cruel matter. I would that I had 
known the cipher at first. Then she might either have 
been disposed of at the Queen’s will, or have been sent 
safe to tliis nunnery at Soissons.” 

“ To be bred a Papist ! Oh fie, husband ! ” 

“ And to breed dissension in the kingdoms ! ” added 
her husband. “ It is best so far for the poor maiden 
herself to have thy tender hand over her than that of 
any queen or abbess of them all.” 

“ Shall we then keep all things as they are, and 
lock this knowledge in our own hearts ?” asked Susan 
hopefully. 

“ To that am I mightily inclined,” said Pichard. 
“ Were it blazed abroad at once, thou and I might be 
made out guilty of I know not what for concealing it ; 
and as to the maiden, she would either be put in close 
ward with her mother, or, what would be more likely, 
had up to court to be watched, and flouted, and spied 
upon, as were the two poor ladies — sisters to the Lady 
Jane — ere they made their lot hopeless by marrying. 
Nay, I have seen those who told me that poor Lady 
Katherine was scarce worse bested in the Tower than 
she was while at court.” 

“ My poor Cis ! No, no ! The only cause for which 


102 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


[CJUP. 

I could bear to yield her up would be the thought that 
she would bring comfort to the heart of the pon 
captive mother who hath the best right to her.” 

“ Forsooth ! I suspect her poor captive mothei 
would scarce be pleased to find this witness to her ill- 
advised marriage in existence.” 

“ Nor would she be permitted to be with her.” 

" Assuredly not. Moreover, what could she do with 
the poor child ? ” 

“ Eear her in Popery,” exclaimed Susan, to whom 
the word was terrible. 

“ Yea, and make her hand secure as the bait to 
some foreign prince or some English traitor, who would 
fain overthrow Queen and Church.” 

Susan shuddered. “ Oh yes ! let us keep the poor 
child to ourselves. I covld not give her up to such 
a lot as that. And it might imperil you too, my hus- 
band. I should like to get up instantly and burn the 
scroll.” 

“ I doubt me whether that were expedient,” said 
Eichard. “ Suppose it were in the course of providence 
that the young King of Scots should not live, then would 
this maid be the means of uniting the two kingdoms 
in the true and Eeformed faith ! Heaven forefend that 
he should be cut off, but meseemeth that we have no 
right to destroy the evidence that may one day be a 
precious thing to the kingdom at large.” 

“No chance eye could read it even were it dis* 
jovered ?” said Susan. 

“ No, indeed. Thou knowest how I strove in vain 
to read it at first, and even now, when Frank Talbot 
unwittingly gave me the key, it was days before I could 
fully read it. It will tell no tales, sweet wife, that 
can prejudice any one, so we wiU l(>,t it be, even with 


VIII.] THE KEY OF THE CIPHER. 103 

the hahy clouts. So now to sleep, with no more 
thoughts on the matter.” 

That was easy to say, but Susan lay awake long 
pondering over the wonder, and only slept to dream 
strange dreams of queens and princesses, ay, and 
worse, for she finally awmke with a scream, thinking 
her husband was on the scaffold, and that Hunifrey 
and Cis were walking up the ladder, hand in hand 
with their necks bared, to follow him ! 

There was no need to bid her hold her tongue. 
She regarded the secret with dread and horror, and a 
sense of something amiss which she could not quite 
define, though she told herself she was only acting 
in obedience to her husband, and indeed her judgment 
went along with his. 

Often she looked at the unconscious Cis, studying 
whether the child’s parentage could be detected in her 
features. But she gave promise of being of larger 
frame than her mother, who bad the fine limbs and 
contour of her Lorraine ancestry, whereas Cis did, 
as Eichard said, seem to have the sturdy outlines of 
the Borderer race from whom her father came. She 
was round-faced too, and sunburnt, with deep gray 
eyes under black straight brows, capable of frowning 
heavily. She did not look likely ever to be the 
fascinating beauty which all declared her mother to 
be — though those who saw the captive at Sheffield, 
believed the charm to be more in indefinable grace 
than in actual features, — in a certain wonderful 
smile and sparkle, a mixed pathos and archness which 
seldom failed of its momentary effect, even upon 
those who most rebelled against it. Poor little Cis, a 
sturdy girl of twelve or thirteen, playing at ball with 
little Ned on the terrace, and coming with tardy steps 


104 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CHAr 


to her daily task of spinning, had little of the princess 
about her ; and yet when she sat down, and the manage- 
ment of distaff and thread threw her shoulders back, 
there was something in the poise of her small head and 
the gesture of her hand that forcibly recalled the Queen. 
Moreover, all the boys around were at her beck and 
call, not only Humfrey and poor Antony Babington, 
but Cavendishes, Pierrepoints, all the young pages and 
grandsons who dwelt at castle or lodge, and attended 
Master Sniggius’s school. Nay, the dominie himself, 
though owning that Mistress Cicely promoted idleness 
and inattention among his pupils, had actually 
volunteered to come down to Bridgefield twice a week 
himself to prevent her from forgetting her Lilly’s gram- 
mar and her Csesar’s Commentaries, an attention with 
which this young lady w^ould willingly have dispensed. 

Stewart, Lorraine, Hepburn, the blood of all com- 
bined was a perilous inheritance, and good Susan 
Talbot’s instinct was tliat the young girl whom she 
loved truly like her own daughter would need all tlie 
more careful and tender watchfulness and training to 
overcome any tendencies that might descend to her. 
Pity increased her affection, and even while in ordinary 
household life it was easy to forget who and what the 
girl really was, yet Cis was conscious that she was 
admitted to the intimacy and privileges of an elder 
daughter, and made a companion and friend, while her 
contemporaries at the Manor-house were treated as 
children, and rated roundly, their fingers tapped with 
fans, their shoulders even -whipped, whenever they 
transgressed. Cis did indeed live rinder equal re- 
straint, but it was the wise and gertle restraint of 
firm influence and constant watchfulness, which took 
from her the wish to resist. 


UNQUIET. 


105 




CHAPTEK IX. 

UNQUIET. 

Bridgefield was a peaceable household, and the castle 
and manor beyond might envy its calm. 

From the time of the marriage of Elizabeth Caven- 
dish with the young Earl of Lennox all the shreds 
of comfort which had remained to the unfortunate 
Earl had vanished. First he had to clear himself 
before Queen Elizabeth from having been a consent- 
ing party, and then he found his wife furious with 
him at his displeasure at her daughter’s aggrandise- 
ment. Moreover, whereas she had formerly been 
on terms of friendly gossiphood with the Scottish 
Queen, she now went over to the Lennox side because 
her favourite daughter had married among them ; and 
it was evident that from that moment all amity 
between her and the prisoner was at an end. 

She was enraged that her husband would not at once 
change his whole treatment of the Queen, and treat her 
as such guilt deserved ; and with the Illogical dulnejss 
of a passionate woman, she utterly scouted and failed to 
comprehend the argument that the unhappy Mary was, 
to say the least of it, no more guilty now than when 
she came into their keeping, and that, to altei their de- 
meanour towards her would be unjust and unreasonable 


106 


UNKNOWN TO HISIORY. 


[CHAP 


" My Lady is altogether beyond reason,” said Captain 
Talbot, returning one evening to his wife ; “ neither 
tny Lord nor her daughter can do ought with her ; so 
puffed up is she with this marriage ! Moreover, she is 
hotly angered that young Babington should have been 
sent away from her retinue without notice to her, and 
demands our Humfrey in his stead as a page.” 

" He is surely too old for a page !” said his mother, 
thinking of her tall well-grown son of fifteen. 

“ So said I,” returned Eichard. “ I had sooner it 
w^ere Diccon, and so I told his lordship.” 

Before Eichard could speak for them, the two boys 
came in, eager and breathless. “ Father !” cried Hum- 
frey, “ who think you is at Hull ? Why, none other 
than your old friend and shipmate. Captain Frobisher !” 

“ Ha ! Martin Frobisher ! Who told thee, Hum- 
frey ?” 

“ Faithful Ekins, sir, who had it from the Doncaster 
carrier, who saw Captain Frobisher himself, and was 
asked by him if you, sir, were not somewhere in 
Yorkshire, and if so, to let you know that he will be 
in Hull till May-day, getting men together for a voy- 
age to the northwards, where there is gold to be had 
for the picking — and if you had a likely son or two, 
now was the time to make their fortunes, and show 
them the world. He said, any way you might ride to 
se; an old comrade.” 

‘ A long message for two carriers,” said Eichard Tal- 
bot, smiling, “but Martin never was a scribe !” 

“ But, sir, you will let me go,” cried Humfrey, 
eagerly. “ I mean, I pray you to let me go. Dear 
mother, say nought against it,” entreated the youth. 
“ Cis, think of my bringing thee home a gold bracelet 
like mother’s.” 


IX.] UNQUIET. 107 

“ What,” said his father, " when my lady has just 
craved thee for a page.” 

“ A page ! said Humfrey, with infinite contempt— 
“ to hear all theii tales and bickerings, hold skeins of 
silk, amble mincingly along galleries, be begged to bear 
messages that may have more in them than one knows, 
and be noted for a bear if one refuses.” 

The father and Cis laughed, the mother looked 
unhappy. 

“ So Martin is at Hull, is he ?” said Eichard, mus- 
ingly. “ If my Lord can give me leave for a week or 
fortnight, methinks I must ride to see the stout old 
knave. ’ 

“ And oh, sweet father ! prithee take me with you,” 
entreated Humfrey, “ if it be only to come back again. 
I have not seen the sea since we came here, and yet 
the sound is in my ears as I fall asleep. I entreat 
of you to let me come, good my father.” 

“ And, good father, let me come,” exclaimed Diccon ; 
“ I have never even seen the sea ! ” 

“ And dear, sweet father, take me,” entreated little 
Ned. 

“ Nay,” cried Cis, “ what should I do ? Here is 
Antony Babington borne off to Cambridge, and you all 
wanting to leave me.” 

“I’ll come home better worth than he!” muttered 
Humfrey, who thought he saw consent on his father’s 
brow, and drew her aside into the deep window. 

“ You’ll come back a rude sailor, smelling of pitch 
and tar, and Antony will be a well-bred, point-device 
scholar, who will know how to give a lady his hand,” 
said the teasing girl. 

And so the playful war was carried on, while the 
father, having silenced and disTni««r^d the two younger 


108 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAF 

lads, expressed his intention of obtaining leave of 
absence, if possible, from the Earl.” 

“Yea,” he added to his wife, “I shall even let 
Humfrey go with me. It is time he looked beyond 
the walls of this place, which is little better than a 
prison.” 

“ And will you let him go on this strange voyage ?” 
she asked wistfully, “ he, our first-born, and our heir.” 

“ For that, dame, remember his namesake, my 
poor brother, was the one who stayed at home, I the one 
to go forth, and here am I now !” The lad’s words 
may have set before thee weightier perils in yonder 
park than he is like to meet among seals and bears 
under honest old Martin.” 

“ Yet here he has your guidance,” said Susan. 

“ Who knows how they might play on his honour 
as to talebearing ? Nay, good wife, when thou hast 
thought it over, thou wilt see that far fouler shoals 
and straits lie up yonder, than in the free open sea that 
God Almighty made. Martin is a devout and godly 
man, who hath matins and evensong on board each 
day when the weather is not too foul, and looks well 
that there be no iU-doings in his ship ; and if he have 
a berth for thy lad, it will be a better school for him 
than where two-thirds of the household are raging 
against one another, and the third ever striving to 
corrupt and outwit the rest. I am weary of it all ! 
Would that I could once get into blue water again, 
and leave it all behind ! ” 

“ You will not ! Oh ! you will not !” implored 
Susan. “ Eem ember, my dear, good lord, how you said 
all your duties lay at home.” 

“I remember, my good housevafe. Thou needst 
not fear for me. But there is little time to spare, li 


UNQUIET. 


109 


ix.] 

I am to see mine old friend, 1 must get speech of my 
Lord to-night, so as to he on horseback to-morrow. 
Saddle me Brown Dumpling, boys.” 

And as the boys went off, persuading Cis, who went 
coyly protesting that the paddock was damp, yet still 
following after them, he added, “ Yea, Sue, considering 
all, it is better those two were apart for a year or so, 
till we see better what is this strange nestling that we 
have reared. Ay, thou art like the mother sparrow 
that hath bred up a cuckoo and doteth on it, yet it 
mateth not with her brood.” 

“ It casteth them out,” said Susan, " as thou art 
doing now, by your leave, husband.” 

" Only for a flight, gentle mother,” he answered, 
" only for a flight, to prove meanwhile whether there 
be the making of a simple household bird, or of a 
hawk that might tear her mate to pieces, in yonder 
nestling.” 

Susan was too dutiful a wife to say more, though 
her motherly heart was wrung almost as much at the 
implied distrust of her adopted daughter as by the 
sudden parting with her first-born to the dangers of 
the northern seas. She could better enter into her 
husband’s fears of the temptations of page life at Shef- 
field, and being altogether a wife, “ bonner and bough- 
some,” as her marriage vow held it, she applied herself 
and Cis to the choosing of the shirts and the crimping 
of the mffs that were to appear in Hull, if, for there 
was this hope at the bottom of her heart, my Lord might 
refuse leave of absence to his “ gentleman porter.” 

The hope was fallacious ; Eichard reported that my 
lord was so much relieved to find that he had detected 
no fresh conspiracy, as to be wiEing to grant him a 
fortnight’s leave, and even had said with a sigh that 


110 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap 

he was in the right on’t about his son, for Sheffield 
was more of a school for plotting than for chivalry. 

It was a point of honour with every good house- 
wife to have a store of linen equal to any emergency, 
and, indeed, as there were no washing days in the 
winter, the stock of personal body -linen was at all 
times nearly a sufficient outfit ; so the main of Hum- 
frey’s shirts were to be despatched by a carrier, in the 
trust that they would reach him before the expedition 
should sail. 

There was then little to delay the father and son, 
after the mother, with fast -gathering tears resolutely 
forced back, had packed and strapped their mails, with 
Cis’s help, Humfrey standing by, booted and spurred, 
and talking fast of the wonders he should see, and the 
gold and ivory he should bring home, to hide the 
qualms of home-sickness, and mother-sickness, he was 
already beginning to feel ; and maybe to get Cis to 
pronounce that then she should think more of him than 
of Antony Babington with his airs and graces. Wist- 
fully did the lad watch for some such tender assurance, 
but Cis seemed all provoking brilliancy and teasing. 
“ She knew he would be back over soon. Oh no, he 
would never go to sea ! She feared not. Mr. Frobisher 
would have none of such awkward lubbers. More’s 
the pity. There would be some peace to get to do her 
broidery, and leave to play on the virginals when he 
was gone.” 

But when the horsemen had disappeared down the 
avenue, Cis hid herself in a corner and cried as if her 
heart would break. 

She cried again behind the back of the tall settle 
when the father came back alone, full of praises of 
Captain Frobisher, his ship, and his company, and hie 


UNQUIET. 


Ill 


IX.] 

assurances that he would watch over Humfrey Hke hia 
own son. 

Meantime the domestic storms at the park wpre 
such that Master Eicliard and his wife were not sorry 
that the boy was not growing up in the midst of them, 
though the Countess rated Susan severely for her 
ingratitude. 

Queen Elizabeth was of course much angered at the 
Lennox match, and the Earl had to write letter after 
letter to clear himself from any participation in bringing 
it about. Queen Mary also wrote to clear herself of it, 
and to show that she absolutely regretted it, as she had 
small esteem for Bess Cavendish. Moreover, though 
Lady Shrewsbury’s friendship might not be a very 
pleasant thing, it was at least better than her hostility. 
However, she was not much at Sheffield. Not only 
was she very angry with her husband, but Queen 
Elizabeth had strictly forbidden the young Lord Lennox 
from coming under the same roof with his royal sister- 
in-law. He was a weakly youth, and his wife’s health 
failed immediately after her marriage, so that Lady 
Shrewsbury remained almost constantly at Chatsworth 
with her darling. 

Gilbert Talbot, who was the chief peacemaker of the 
family, went to and fro, wrote letters and did his best, 
which would have been more effective but for Mary, his 
wife, who, no doubt, detailed all the gossip of Sheffield at 
Chatsworth, as she certainly amused Sheffield with 
stories of her sister Bess as a royal countess full of 
airs and humours, and her mf ther treating her, if not 
as a queen, at least on the high road to become one, 
and how the haughty dame of Shrewsbury ran will- 
ingly to pick up her daughter’s kerchief, and stood 
over the fire stirring the posset, rather than let it fail 


UNKxNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


112 


[OHAP. 


to tempt the appetite which became more dainty ty 
being cossetted. 

The difference made between Lady Lennox and her 
elder sisters was not a little nettling to Dame Mary 
Talbot, who held that some consideration was her dne^ 
as the proud mother of the only grandson of the house 
of Shrewsbury, little George, who was just able to be 
put on horseback in the court, and say he was riding 
to see “ Lady Danmode,” and to drink the health of 
" Lady Danmode ” at his meals. 

Alas ! the little hope of the Talbots suddenly faded. 
One evening after supper a message came down in 
haste to beg for the aid of Mistress Susan, who, though 
much left to the seclusion of Bridgefield in prosperous 
days, was always a resource in trouble or difficulty. 
Little George, then two and a half years old, had been 
taken suddenly ill after a supper on marchpane and 
plum broth, washed down by Christmas ale. Convul- 
sions had come on, and the skill of Queen Mary’s 
apothecary had only gone so far as to bleed him. 
Susan arrived only just in time to see the child breathe 
his last sigh, and to have his mother, wild with 
tumultuous clamorous grief, put into her hands for 
such soothing and comforting as might be possible, and 
the good and tender woman did her best to turn the 
mother’s thoughts to something higher and better than 
the bewailing at one moment “ her pretty boy,” with a 
sort of animal sense of bereavement, and the next 
with lamentations over the honours to which he would 
have succeeded. It was of little use to speak to her 
of the eternal glories of which he was now secure, for 
Mary Talbot’s sorrow was chiefly selfish, and was con- 
nected with the loss of her pre-eminence as parent to 
the heir-male. 


UNQUIET. 


113 


LX.] 


However, the grief of those times was apt to expend 
itself quickly, and when little George’s coffin, smothered 
under heraldic devices and funeral escutcheons, had 
been bestowed in the family vault. Dame Mary soon 
revived enough to take a warm interest in tlie lords 
svho were next afterwards sent down to hold conferences 
with the captive ; and her criticism of the fashion of their 
ruffs and doublets was as animated as ever. Another 
grief, however, soon fell upon the family. Lady Len- 
nox’s ailments proved to be no such trifles as her sisters 
and sisters-in-law had been pleased to suppose, and 
before the year was out, she had passed away from all 
her ambitious hopes, leaving a little daughter. The 
Earl took a brief leave of absence to visit his lady in 
her affliction at Chatsworth, and to stand godfather to 
the motherless infant. 

“ She will soon he fatherless, too,” said Eichard 
Talbot on his return to Bridgefield, after attending his 
lord on this expedition. “My young Lord Lennox, 
poor youth, is far gone in the wasting sickness, as well 
as distraught with grief, and he could scarcely stand to 
receive my Lord.” 

“ Our poor lady !” said Susan, “it pities me to think 
what hopes she had fixed upon that young couple whom 
she had mated together.” 

“ I doubt me whether her hopes be ended now,” 
quoth Richard. “ What think you she hath fixed on 
as the name of the poor puling babe yonder ? They 
have called her Arbel or Arabella.” 

'• Arabella, say you ? I never heard such a name 
I t is scarce Christian. Is it out of a romaunt ?” 

“ Better that it were. It is out of a pedigree. They 
have got the whole genealogy of the house of Lennox 
blazoned fair, with crowns and coronets and coats of 
I 


114 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


arms hung up in the hall at Chatsworth going up on 
the one hand through Sir ^neas of Troy, and on the 
other hand through Woden to Adam and Eve ! Pass 
for all before the Stewart line became Kings of Scots 1 
Well, it seems that these Lennox Stewarts sj)rang from 
one Walter, who was son to King Eobert II., and that 
the mother of this same Walter was called Arnhild, or 
as the Scots here caU it Annaple, but the scholars have 
made it into Arabella, and so my young lady is to be 
called. They say it was a special fancy of the young 
Countess’s.” 

“ So I should guess. My lady would fill her head 
with such thoughts, and of this poor youth being next 
of kin to the young Scottish king, and to our own 
Queen.” 

“ He is not next heir to Scotland even, barring a 
little one we wot of. Dame Sue. The Hamiltons stand 
between, being descended from a daughter of King 
James I.” 

“ So methought I had heard. Are they not Papists ?” 

" Yea ! Ah ha, sweetheart, there is another of the 
house of Hardwicke as fain to dreams of greatness for 
her child as ever was the Countess, though she may 
be more discreet in the telling of them.” 

“ Ah me, dear sir, I dreamt not of greatness for 
splendour’s sake — ’twere scarce for the dear child’s 
happiness. I only thought of what you once said, 
that she may be the instrument of preserving the true 
religion.” 

“ And if so, it can only be at a mighty cost !” said 
her husband. 

“ Verily,” said Susan, “ glad am I that you sent oui 
Humfrey from her. Would that nought had ever 
passed between the children !” 


IX.] UNQUIET. 115 

“ They were but children,” said Eichaid ; “ and there 
was no contract between them.” 

“ I fear me there was what Humfrey will hold to, 
or know good reason why,” said his mother, 

“ And were the young King of Scots married and 
father to a goodly heir, there is no reason he should 
not hold to it,” rejoined Eichard. 

However Eichard was still anxious to keep his son 
engaged at a distance from Sheffield. There was great 
rejoicing and thankfulness when one of the many 
messengers constantly passing between London and 
Sheffield brought a packet from Humfrey, whose ship 
had put into the Thames instead of the Humber. 

The packet contained one of the black stones which 
the science of the time expected to transmute into gold, 
also some Esquimaux trinkets made of bone, and a few 
shells. These were for the mother and Cis, and there 
were also the tusks of a sea-elephant which Humfrey 
would lay up at my Lord’s London lodgings till his 
father sent tidings what should be done with them, and 
whether he should come home at once by sea to Hull, 
or if, as he much desired to do, he might join an expe- 
dition which was fitting out for the Spanish Main, where 
he was assured that much more both of gold and hon- 
our was to be acquired than in the cold northern seas, 
where nothing was to be seen for the fog at most times, 
and when it cleared only pigmies, with their dogs, white 
bears, and seals, also mountains of ice bigger than any 
church, blue as my lady’s best sapphires, green as hei 
emeralds, sparkling as her diamonds, but ready to be 
the destruction of the ships. 

“ One there was,” wrote Humfrey, “ that I could 
have thought was no other than the City that the 
blessed St. John saw descending from Heaven, so fail 


116 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAl' 

was it to look on, but they cried out that it was rathei 
a City of Destruction, and when we had got out of the 
current where it was bearing down on us, our noble 
captain piped all hands up to prayers, and gave thanks 
for our happy deliverance therefrom.” 

Susan breathed a thanksgiving as her husband read, 
and he forbore to tell her of the sharks, the tornadoes, 
and the fevers which might make the tropical seas more 
perilous than the Arctic. No Elizabethan mariner had 
any scruples respecting piracy, and so long as the cap- 
tain was a godly man who kept up strict discipline on 
board. Master Eichard held the quarterdeck to be a 
much more wholesome place than the Manor-house, 
and much preferred the humours of the ship to those 
of any other feminine creature ; for, as to his Susan, he 
always declared that she was the only woman who had 
none. 

So she accepted his decision, and saw the wisdom 
of it, though her tender heart deeply felt the disap 
pointment. Tenderly she packed up the shirts which 
she and Cis had finished, and bestrewed them with 
lavender, which, as she said, while a tear dropped with 
the gray blossoms, would bring the scent of home to 
the boy. 

Cis affected to be indifferent and offended. “ Mas- 
ter Humfrey might do as he chose. She did not care 
if he did prefer pitch and tar, and whale blubber and 
grease, to hawks and hounds, and lords and ladies. She 
was sure she wanted no more great lubberly lads — with 
a sly cut at Diccon — to tangle her silk, and torment 
her to bait their hooks. She was well quit of any one 
of them. 

When Diccon proposed that she should write a 
lette* to Humfrey, she declared that she should do no 


UNQUIKT. 


117 


IX.J 

such thing, since he had never attempted to wi'ite to 
her. In truth Diccon may have made the proposal 
in order to obtain a companion in misfortune, since 
Master Sniggius, emulous of the success of other tutors, 
insisted on his writing to his brother in Latin, and the 
unfortunate epistle of Eicardus to Onofredus was 
revised and corrected to the last extremity, and as it 
was allowed to contain no word unknown to Virgilius 
Maro, it could not have afforded much delectation to 
the recipient. 

But when Mrs. Susan had bestowed all the shirts 
as neatly as possible, on returning to settle them for 
the last time before wrapping them up for tlie messen- 
ger, she felt something hard among them. It was a 
tiny parcel wrapped in a piece of a fine kerchief, tied 
round with a tress of dark hair, and within, Susan 
knew by the feeling, a certain chess rook which had 
been won by Cis when shooting at the butts a weel 
. or two before. 


118 


UNKl^OWN TO HISTOKY. 


LCHAf 


CHAPTEE X. 

THE LADY AKBELL. 

After several weary months of languishing, Charles 
Stewart was saved from the miseries which seemed 
the natural inheritance of his name by sinking into 
his grave. His funeral was conducted with ihe 
utmost magnificence, though the Earl of Shrewsbury 
declined to be present at it, and shortly after, the 
Countess intimated her purpose of returning to Sheffield, 
bringing with her the little orphan. Lady Arabella 
Stewart. Orders came that the best presence chamber in 
the Manor-house should be prepared, the same indeed 
where Queen Mary had been quartered before the 
lodge had been built for her use. The Earl was 
greatly perturbed. “ Whom can she intend to bring ? ” 
he went about asking. “ If it were the Lady Margaret, 
it were as much as my head were worth to admit her 
within the same grounds as this Queen.” 

“ There is no love lost between the mother-in-law 
and daughter-in-law,” observed his son Gilbert in a 
consolatory tone. 

“ liittle good would that do to me, if once it came 
to the ears of her Grace and the Lord Treasurer that 
both had been my guests ! And if I had to close the 
gates- — though in no other way could I save my life 


THE LADY ARBELL. 


119 


X.] 

and honour — your mother would never forget it. It 
would be cast up to me for ever. What think you, 
daughter Talbot ? ” 

“Mayhap,” said Dame Mary, "my lady mother 
has had a hint to make ready for her Majesty herself, 
who hath so often spoken of seeing the Queen of 
Scots, and might think well to take her unawares.’' 

This was a formidable suggestion. “ Say you so,” 
cried the poor Earl, with an alarm his eye would never 
have betrayed had Parma himself been within a march 
of Sheffield, “ then were we fairly spent. I am an 
impoverished man, eaten out of house and lands as it 
is, and were the Queen herself to come, I might take 
at once to the beggar’s bowl.” 

“ But think of the honour, good my lord,” cried 
Mary. “ Think of all Hallamshire coming to do her 
homage. Oh, how I should laugh to hear the Mayor 
stumbling over his address.” 

“ Laugh, ay,” growled the Earl ; “ and how will 
you laugh when there is not a deer left in the park, 
nor an ox in tlie stalls ? ” 

“ Nay, my Lord,” interposed Gilbert, “ there is no 
fear of her Majesty’s coming. That post from M. de 
la Mauvissi6re reported her at Greenwich only five 
days back, and it would take her Majesty a far longer 
time to make her progress than yonder fellow, who 
will tell you himself that she had no thoughts of 
moving.” 

“ That might only be a feint to be the more sudden 
;dth us,” said his wife, actuated in part by the diversion 
of alarming her father-in-law, ajid in part really fired 
by the hope of such an effectual enlivenment of the 
iulness of Sheffield. 

They were all in full family conclave drawn up in 


120 UNKNOWN TO HISTOllY. [CHAP 

the hall for the reception, and Mistress Susan, who 
could not hear to see the Earl so perplexed and 
anxious, ventured to say that she was quite s\ire that 
my Lady Countess would have sent warning forward 
if indeed she were bringing home such a guest, and at 
that moment the blare of trumpets annouDvjed that 
the cavalcade was approaching. The start v hich the 
Earl gave showed how much his nerves had become 
affected by his years of custody. Up the long 
avenue they came, with all the state with which 
the Earl had conducted Queen Mary to the lodge 
before she was absolutely termed a prisoner. Hal- 
berdiers led the procession, horse and foot seemed 
to form it. The home party stood on tlie top of the 
steps watching with much anxiety. There was a 
closed litter visible, beside which Lady Shrewsbury, 
in a mourning dress and hood, could be seen riding her 
favourite bay palfrey. Ho doubt it contained the Lady 
Margaret, Countess of Lennox; and the unfortunate Earl, 
forgetting all his stately dignity, stood uneasily moving 
from leg to leg, and pulling his long beard, torn 
between the instincts of hospitality and of loyal obedi- 
ence, between fear of his wife and fear of the Queen. 

The litter halted at the foot cf the steps, the Eail 
descended. All he saw v/as the round face of an 
infant in its nurse’s arms, and he turned to help his wife 
from the saddle, but she waved him aside. “ My son 
Gilbert will aid me, my Lord,” said she, “ your devoir is 
to the princess.” 

Poor Lord Shrewsbury, his apologies on his "ongue, 
looked mto the litter, -where he saw the well-known 
and withered countenance of the family nurse. He also 
beheld a buxom young female, whose di-ess marked her 
as a peasant, but before he had time to seek further for 


THE LADY ARBELL. 


121 


*-] 

the princess, the tightly rolled chrysalis of a child was 
thrust into his astonished arms, while the round face 
puckered up instantly with terror at sight of his 
bearded countenance, and he was greeted with a loud 
yell looked helplessly round, and his lady was 

ready at ^aee to relieve him. “ My precious ! My 
sweetheart ! My jewel ! Did he look sour at her and 
frighten her with his ugsome beard ?” and the like 
endearments common to grandmothers in aU ages, 

“ But where is the princess ?” 

" Where ? Where should she he but here ? Her 
grandame’s own precious, royal, queenly little darling !” 
and as a fresh cry broke out, “ Yes, yes ; she shall to 
her presence chamber. Usher her, Gilbert.” 

“ Bess’s brat !” muttered Dame Mary, in ineffable 
disappointment. 

Curiosity and the habit of obedience to the Countess 
carried the entire troop on to the grand apartments on 
the south side, where Queen Mary had been lodged while 
the fiction of her guestship had been kept up. Lady 
Shrewsbury was all the time trying to hush the child, 
who was quite old enough to be terrified by new faces 
and new scenes, and who was besides tired and restless 
in her avvaddliiig bands, for which she was so nearly 
too old that she had only been kept in them for greater 
security upon the rough and dangerous roads. Great 
was my lady’s indignation on reaching the state 
rooms on finding that no nursery preparations had 
been made, and her daughter Mary, with a giggle 
hardly repressed by awe of her mother, stood forth and 
said, “ Why, verily, my lady, we expected some great 
dame, my Lady Margaret or my Lady Hunsdon at the 
very least, when you spoke of a princess.” 

“ And who should it be but one who has both the 


122 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

royal blood of England and Scotland in her veins?" 
You have not saluted the child to whom you have the 
honour to be akin, Mary ! On your knee, minion ; I 
tell you she hath as good or a better chance of wearing 
a crown as any woman in England.” 

“ She hath a far better chance of a prison,” 
muttered the Earl, “ if all this foolery goes on.” 

“ What ! What is that ? What are you calling 
these honours to my orphan princess ?”’ cried the lady, 
but the princess herself here broke in with the lustiest 
of squalls, and Susan, who was sorry for the child, 
contrived to insert an entreaty that my lady would 
permit her to be taken at once to the nursery chamber 
that had been made ready for her, and let her there be 
fed, warmed, and undressed at once. 

There was something in the quality of Susan’s voice 
to which people listened, and the present necessity 
overcame the Countess’s desire to assert the dignity of 
her granddaughter, so she marched out of the room 
attended by the women, while the Earl and his sons 
were only too glad to slink away — there is no other word 
for it, their relief as to the expected visitor having been 
exchanged for consternation of another description. 

There was a blazing fire ready, and all the baby 
comforts of the time provided, and poor little Lady 
Arbell was relieved from her swathing bands, and 
allowed to stretch her little limbs on her nurse’s lap, 
the one rest really precious to babes of all periods and 
conditions — but the troubles were not yet over, for the 
grandmother, glancing round, demanded, “ Wliere is the 
cradle inlaid with pearl ? Why was it not provided ^ 
Bring it here.” 

Now this cradle, carved in cedar wood and inlaid 
with mother-of-pearl, had been a sponsor’s gift to pool 


THE LADY ARBELL. 


123 


X.] 

little George, the first male heir of the Talbots, and it 
was regarded as a special treasure by his mother, who 
was both wounded and resentful at the demand, and 
stood pouting and saying, “ It was my son’s. It is 
raine.” 

“ It belongs to the family. You,” to two of the 
servants, “ fetch it here instantly !” 

The ladies. of Hardwicke race were not guarded in 
temper or language, and Mary burst into passionate 
tears and exclamations that Bess’s brat should not 
have her lost George’s cradle, and flounced away to get 
before the servants and lock it up. Lady Shrewsbury 
would have sprung after her, and have made no scruple 
of using her fists and nails even on her married 
daughter, but that she was impeded by a heavy table, 
and this gave time for Susan to throw herself before 
her, and entreat her to pause. 

“ You, you, Susan Talbot ! You should know better 
than to take the part of an undutiful, foul-tongued 
vixen like that. Out of my way, I say !” and as 
Susan, still on her knees, held the riding-dress, she 
received a stinging box on the ear. But in her maiden 
days she had known the weight of my lady’s hand, and 
without relaxing her hold, she only entreated : “ Hear 
me, hear me for a little space, my lady. Did you but 
know how sore her heart is, and how she loved little 
Master George !” 

“That is no reason she should flout and miscaU 
her dead sister, of whom she was always jealous !” 

“ 0 madam, she wept with all her heart for poor 
Lady Lennox. It is not any evil, but she sets such 
store by that cradle in which her child died — she 
keeps it by her bed even now, and her woman told 
me how, for all she seems gay and blithe by day, 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


124 


[chap 


she weeps over it at night, as if her heart would 
break.” 

Lady Shrewsbury was a little softened. “ The 
child died in it ?” she asked. 

“ Yea, madam. He had been on his father’s knee, 
and had seemed a little easier, and as if he might 
sleep, so Sir Gilbert laid him down, and he did but 
stretch himself out, shiver all over, draw, a long breath 
and the pretty lamb was gone to Paradise !” 

“You saw him, Susan ?” 

“ Yea, madam. Dame Mary sent for me, but none 
could be of any aid where it was the will of Heaven 
to take him.” 

“ If I had been there,” said the Countess, “ I who 
have brought up eight children and lost none, I should 
have saved him ! So he died in yonder cedar cradle ! 
WeU, e’en let Mary keep it. It may be that there is 
infection in the smell of the cedar wood, and that the 
child will sleep better out of it. It is too late to do, 
aught this evening, but to-morrow the child shall be 
lodged as befits her birth, in the presence chamber.” 

“ Ah, madam !” said Susan, “ would it be well for 
the sweet babe if her Majesty’s messengers, who be so 
often at the castle, were to report her so lodged ?” 

“ I have a right to lodge my grandchild where and 
how I please in my own liouse.” 

“Yea, madam, that is most true, but you wot how 
the Queen treats all who may have any claim to the 
throne in future times ; and were it reported by any of 
the spies that are ever about us, how royal honours 
were paid t> the little Lady Arbell, might she not be 
taken from your ladyship’s wardship, and bestowed with 
those who would not show her such loving care ?” 

The Countess would not show whether this had 


THE LADY AEBELL. 


125 


X.J 

any effect on her, or else some sound made by the 
child attracted her. It was a puny little thing, and 
she had a true grandmother’s affection for it, apart 
from her absurd pride and ambition, so that she was 
glad to hold counsel over it with Susan, who had done 
such justice to her training as to be, in her eyes, a 
mother who had sense enough not to let her children 
waste and die ; a rare merit in those days, and one 
that Susan could not disclaim, though she knew that 
it did not properly belong to her. 

Cis had stood by all the time like a little statue, 
for no one, not even young Lady Talbot, durst sit 
down uninvited in the presence of Earl or Countess ; 
but her black brows were bent, her gray eyes intent 

“ Mother,” she said, as they went home on their 
quiet mules, “ are great ladies always so rudely spoken 
to one another ?” 

“ I have not seen many great ladies, Cis, and my 
Lady Countess has always been good to me.” 

“ Antony said that the Scots Queen and her ladies 
never storm at one another like my lady and her 
daughters.” 

“ Open words do not always go deep, Cis,” said the 
mother. “ I had rather know and hear the worst at 
once.” And then her heart smote her as she recol- 
lected that she might be implying censure of the girl’s 
true mother, as well as defending vrrath and passion, 
and she added, “ Be that as it may, it is a happy thing 
to learn to refrain the tongue.” 


126 


UNlOvOWN TO HISTOEY. 


[CHAP 


CHAPTEE XT. 

QUEEN MARY’S PRESENCE CHAMBER. 

The storm that followed on the instalment of the Lady 
Arbell at Sheflield was the precursor of many more. 
Her grandmother did sufficiently awake to the danger 
of alarming the jealousy of Queen Elizabeth to submit 
to leave her in the ordinary chambers of the children 
of the house, and to exact no extraordinary marks of 
respect towards the unconscious infant ; but there was 
no abatement in the Countess’s firm belief that an 
English -born, English -bred child, would have more 
right to the crown than any “ foreign princes,” as she 
contemptuously termed the Scottish Queen and her 
son. 

Moreover, in her two years’ intercourse with the 
elder Countess of Lennox, who was a gentle-tempered 
but commonplace woman, she had adopted to the full 
that unfortunate princess’s entire belief in the guilt of 
Queen Mary, and entertained no doubt that she had 
been the murderer of Darnley. Old Lady Lennox 
had seen no real evidence, and merely believed what 
she was told by her lord, whose impeachment of Both- 
well had been baffled by the Queen in a most 
suspicious manner. Conversations with this lauy had 
entirely changed Lady Shrewsbury from the friendly 


XI.] QUEEN Mary’s presence chamber. 127 

hostess of her illustrious captive, to be her enemy and 
persecutor, partly as being convinced of her guilt, 
partly as regarding her as an obstacle in the path of 
little Arbell to the throne. So she not only refused 
to pay her respects as usual to “ that murtheress,’' but 
she insisted that her husband should tighten the bonds 
of restraint, and cut off all indulgences. 

The Countess was one of the women to whom 
aigument and reason are impossible, and who was en- 
tirely swayed by her predilections, as well as of so 
imperious a nature as to brook no opposition, and to 
be almost always able to sweep every one along with 
her. 

Her own sons always were of her mind, and her 
daughters might fret and chafe, but were sure to take 
part with her against every one else outside the Caven- 
dish family. The idea of being kinsfolk to the future 
Queen excited them all, and even Mary forgot her 
offence about the cradle, and her jealousy of Bess, and 
ranked herself against her stepfather, influencing her 
husband, Gilbert, on whom the unfortunate Earl had 
hitherto leant. On his refusal to persecute his un- 
fortunate captive beyond the orders from the Court, 
Bess of Hardwicke, emboldened by the support she 
had gathered from her children, passionately declared 
that it could only be because he was himself in love 
with the murtlieress. Lord Shrewsbury could not 
help laughing a little at the absurdity of the idea, 
whereupon my lady rose up in virtuous indignation, 
sailing her sons and daughters to follow her. 

All that night, lights might have been seen flitting 
about at the Manor-house, and early in the morning 
bugles sounded to horse. A huge procession, consist- 
ing of the Countess herself, and all her sons and 


128 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

daughters then at Sheffield, little Lady Arbell, and 
the whole of their attendants, swept out of the gates 
of the park on the way to Hardwicke. When Eichard 
Talbot went up to fulfil his duties as gentleman porter 
at the lodge the courts seemed well-nigh deserted, and 
a messenger summoned him at once to the Earl, whom 
he found in his bed-chamber in his morning gown 
terribly perturbed. 

“For Heaven’s sake send for your wife, Eichard 
Talbot !” he said. “ It is her Majesty’s charge that 
some of mine household, or I myself, see this unhappy 
Queen of Scots each day for not less than two hours, 
as you well know. My lady has broken away, and 
aU her daughters, on this accursed fancy — yea, and 
Gilbert too, Gilbert whom I always looked to to stand 
by me ; I have no one to send. If I go and attend upon 
her alone, as I have done a thousand times to my 
sorrow, it will but give colour to the monstrous tale ; 
but if your good wife, an honourable lady of the 
Hardwicke kin, against whom none ever breathed a 
word, will go and give the daily attendance, then can 
not the Queen herself find fault, and my wife’s heated 
fancy can coin nothing suspicious. You must all come 
up, and lodge here in the Manor-house till this tempest 
be over])ast. Oh, Eichard, Eichard ! will it last out 
my life ? My very children are turned against me. 
Go you down and fetch your good Susan, and take 
order for bringing up your children and gear. Ben- 
thall shall take your turn at the lodge. Whiit are you 
tariffing for ? Do you doubt whether your wife have 
rank enough to wait on the Queen ? She should have 
been a knight’s lady long ago, but that I deemed you 
would be glad to be quit of herald’s fees ; your service 
and estate have merited it, and I will crave license b)' 


XI.] QHKEN MAliY’s PRESENCK lllAMBEK 129 

to-day’s courier from her Majesty to lay knighthcod 
Dll your shoulder.” 

“ That was not what I thought of my Lord, though 
I humbly thank you, and would be whatever was best 
f.u your Lordship’s service, though, if it would serve 
rou as well, I would rather be squire than knight ; 
I 'lit I was bethinking me how we should bestow our 
small family. We have a young damsel at an age not 
to be left to herself.” 

"The black -browed maid — I recollect her. Let 
her e’en follow her mother. Queen ]\lary likes a young 
face, and is kindly disposed to little maids. She 
taught Bess Pierrepoint to speak French and work 
with her needle, and I cannot see that she did the lass 
any harm, nay, she is the only one of them all that 
can rule her tongue to give a soft answer if things 
go not after her will, and a maid might learn worse 
things. Besides, your wife will be there to look 
after the maiden, so you need have no fears. And 
for your sous, they will be at school, and can eat 
with us.” 

Eichard’s doubts being thus silenced he could not 
'but bring his wife to his lord’s rescue, though he well 
knew that Susan would be greatly disturbed on all 
accounts, and indeed he found her deep in the ironing 
that followed the great spring wash, and her housewifely 
mind was as much exercised as to the effects of her 
desertion, as was her maternal prudence at the plunge 
which her unconscious adopted child was about to 
make. However, there was no denying the request 
backed as it was by her husband, looking at hei 
proudly, and declaring she was by general consent 
the only discreet woman in Sheffield. She was very 
sorry for the Earl’s perplexity, and had a loyal pity 

i\' 


130 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


[CHAP 


for the Countess’s vexation and folly, and she was 
consoled by the assurance that she would have a free 
time between dinner and supper to go home and 
attend to her wash, and fiuisli lier preparations. Cis, 
who had been left in a state of great curiosity, to 
continue compounding pickle while the mother was 
called away, was summoned to don her holiday kirtle. 
for she was to join in attendance on the Queen of 
Scots while Lady Shrewsbury and her daughters were 
absent. 

It was unmixed delight to the girl, and she was not 
long in fresh-binding up her hair — black with a little 
rust-coloured tinge — under her stiff little cap, smooth- 
ing down the front, which was alone visible, putting 
on the well-stiffened ruff with the dainty little lace 
edge and close-fitting tucker, and then the gray home- 
spun kirtle, with the ruffs at the top of the tight 
sleeves, and the slashes into which she had persuaded 
mother to insert some old pink satin, for was not she 
sixteen now, and almost a woman ? There was a pink 
breast-knot to match, and Hurnfrey’s owch just above it, 
gray stockings, home -spun and worked with elaborate 
pink clocks, but knitted by Cis herself; and a pair of 
shoes with pink roses to match were put into a bag, to 
be assumed when she arrived at the lodge. Out of 
this simple finery beamed a face, bright in spite of the 
straight, almost bushy, black brows. There was a light 
of youth, joy, and intelligence, about her gray eyes 
which made them sparkle all the more under their 
dark setting, and though her complexion had no 
brilliancy, only the clearness of health, and her 
features would not endure criticism, there was a 
wonderful lively sweetness about her fresh, innocent 
young mouth ; and she had a tall lithe figure, sur* 


XI.] QUEEN MARY’S PRESENCE CHAMBER. 131 

passing that of her stepmother. She would have been 
a sonsie Border lass in appearance hut for the remark- 
able carriage of her small head and shoulders, which 
was assuredly derived from her royal ancestry, and 
indeed her air and manner of walking were such that 
Diccon had more than once accused her of sailing 
about ambling like the Queen of Scots, an accusation 
which she hotly denied. Her hands had likewise a 
slender form and fine texture, such as none of the 
ladies of the houses of Talbot or Hardwicke could 
rival, but she was on the whole viewed as far from 
being a beauty. The taste of the day was altogether 
for light, sandy -haired, small- featured women, like 
Queen Elizabeth or her namesake of Hardwicke, so that 
Cis was looked on as a sort of crow, and her supposed 
parents were pitied for having so ill-favoured a 
daughter, so unlike all their families, except one black- 
a-vised Talbot grandmother, whose portrait had been 
discovered on a pedigree. 

Much did Susan marvel what impression the 
daughter would make on the true mother as they 
jogged up on their sober ponies through the long 
avenues, whose branches were beginning to wear the 
purple shades of coming spring. 

Lord Shrewsbury himself met them in front of the 
lodge, where, in spite of all his dignity, he had 
evidently been impatiently awaiting them. He 
thanked Susan for coming, as if he had not had a 
right to order, gave her his ungloved hand when she 
had dismounted, then at the single doorway of the 
lodge caused his gentleman to go through the form of 
re<-iuesting admission for himself and Mistress Talbot, 
his dear kinswoman, to the presence of the Queen. It 
was a ceremony daily observed as an acknowledgment 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


1:32 


[UIIAF 


of Mary’s royalty, and the Earl was far too courteous 
ever to omit it. 

Queen Mary’s willingness to admit him was notified 
by Sir Andrew Melville, a tall, worn man, wdth the 
typical Scottish countenance and a keen steadfast gray 
eye. He marshalled the trio up a circular staircase, 
made as easy as possible, but necessarily narrow, since 
it wound up through a brick turret at the corner, to 
the third and uppermost story of the lodge. 

There, however, was a very handsome anteroom, 
with tapestry hangings, a richly moulded ceiling, and 
wide carved stone chimneypiece, where a bright fire was 
burning, around which sat several Scottish and French 
gentlemen, who rose at the Earl’s entrance. Another 
wide doorway with a tapestry curtain over the folding 
leaves led to the presence chamber, and Sir Andrew 
announced in as full style as if he had been marshal- 
ling an English ambassador to the Court of Holyrood, 
the most high and mighty Earl of Shrewsbury. The 
room was full of March sunshine, and a great wood 
fire blazed on the hearth. Part of the floor was 
carpeted, and overhung with a canopy, proceeding from 
the tapestried wall, and here was a cross-legged velvet 
chair on which sat Queen Mary. This was all that 
Cis saw at first, while the Earl advanced, knelt on 
one step of the dais, with bared head, exchanging 
greetings with the Queen. He then added, that his 
wife, the Countess, and her daughter, having been 
called away from Sheffield, he would entreat her 
Grace to accept for a few days in their stead the 
attendance of his good kinswoman, Mrs. Talbot, and 
her daughter. Mistress Cicely. 

Mary graciously intimated her consent, and extended 
her hand for each to kiss as they knelt in turn on the 


XI.] QUEEN MAKY’S PRESENCE CHAMBER. 133 

step ; Susan either fancied, or really saw a wonderful 
likeness in that taper hand to the little one whose 
stitches she had so often guided. Cis, on her part, 
felt the thrill of girlhood in the actual touch ot the 
subject of her dreams. She stood, scarcely hearing 
what passed, but taking in, from under her black brows, 
all the surroundings, and recognising the persons from 
her former, glimpses, and from Antony Babington’s 
descriptions. The presence chamber was ample for 
the suite of the Queen, which had been reduced on 
every fresh suspicion. There was in it, besides the 
Queen’s four ladies, an elderly one, witli a close black 
silk hood — Jean Kennedy, or Mrs. Kennett as the 
English called her ; another, a thin slight figure, with a 
worn face, as if a great sorrow had passed over her, 
making her look older than her mistress, was the 
Queen’s last remaining Mary, otherwise Mrs. Seaton. 
The gossip of Sheffield had not failed to tell how the 
chamberlain, Beatoun, had been her suitor, and she 
had half consented to accept him when he was sent 
on a mission to France, and there died. The dark- 
complexioned bright-eyed little lady, on a smaller scale 
than the rest, was Marie de Courcelles, who, like the 
two others, had been the Queen’s companion in all 
her adventures ; and the fourth, younger and prettier 
than the rest, was already known to Cis and her mother, 
since she was the Barbara Mowbray who was affianced 
to Gilbert Curll, the Queen’s Scottish secretary, recently 
taken into her service. Both these were Protestants, 
atid, like the Bridgefield family, attended service in 
the castle chapel. They were all at work, as was like- 
wise their royal lady, to whom the girl, with the youth- 
ful coyness that halts in the fulfilment of its dreams, 
did not at first raise her eyes, having first taken in all 


134 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CIL*P. 

the ladies, the several portions of one great coverlet 
which they were all embroidering in separate pieces, 
and the gentleman who was reading aloud to them from 
Ji large book placed on a desk at which he was standing. 
When she did look up, as the Queen was graciously 
requesting her mother to be seated, and the Earl excusing 
him'ielf from remaining longer, her first impression was 
one of disappointment. Either the Queen of Scots was 
less lovely seen leisurely close at hand than Antony 
Babington and Cis’s own fancy had painted her, or the 
last two or three years had lessened her charms, as well 
they might, for she had struggled and suffered much 
in the interval, had undergone many bitter disappoint- 
ments, and had besides endured much from rheu- 
matism every winter, indeed, even now she could not 
ride, and could only go out in a carriage in the park 
on the finest days, looking forward to her annual visit 
to Buxton to set her up for the summer. Her face 
was longer and more pointed than in former days, her 
complexion had faded, or perhaps in these private 
moments it had not been worth while to enhance it ; 
though there was no carelessness in the general attire, 
the black velvet gown, and delicate lace of the cap, 
and open ruff always characteristic of her. The small 
curls of hair at her temples had their auburn tint 
softened by far more white than suited one who was 
only just over forty, but the delicate pencilling of the 
eyebrows was as marked as ever; and the eyes, on 
whose colour no one ever agreed, melted and sparkled 
as of old. Cis had heard debates as to their hue, and 
furtively tried to form her own opinion, but could not 
decide on anything but that they had a dark effect, 
and a wonderful power of expression, seeming to look 
ut every one at once, and to rebuke, encourage, plea<i, 


Xr.] QUEEN MARY’S PRESENCE CHAMBER, 135 

or smile, from moment to moment. The slight cast in 
one of them really added to their force of expression 
rather than detracted from their beauty, and the deli- 
cate lips were ready to second the glances with 
wondrous smiles. Cis had not felt the magic of hei 
mere presence five minutes without being convinced 
that Antony Babington was right ; the Lord Treasurer 
and all the rest utterly wrong, and that she beheld 
the most innocent and persecuted of princesses. 

Meantime, all due formalities having been gone 
through. Lord Shrewsbury bowed himself out backwards 
with a dexterity that Cis breathlessly admired in one so 
stately and so stiff, forgetting that he had daily practice 
in the art. Then Queen Mary courteously entreated her 
visitors to be seated, near herself, asking with a smile 
if this were not the little maiden who had queened 
it so prettily in the brake some few years since. 
Cis blushed and drew back her head with a pretty 
gesture of dignified shyness as Susan made answer for 
her that she was the same, 

“ I should have known it,” said the Queen, smiling, 
“ by the port of her head alone. ’Tis strange,” she said, 
musing, “ that maiden hath the bearing of head and 
neck that I have never seen save in my own mother, 
the saints rest her soul, and in her sisters, and which 
we always held to be their inheritance from the blood 
of Charlemagne.” 

“ Your grace does her too much honour,” Susan 
contrived to say, thankful that no less remote resem- 
blance had been detected. 

“It was a sad farce when they tried to repeat your 
pretty comedy with the chief performer omitted,” pro- 
ceeded the Queen, directing her words to the girl, but 
the mother replied for her. 


136 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAF. 

* Your Grace will pardon me, I could net permit 
her to play in public, before all the menU of the castle.” 

“ Madame is a discreet and prudent mother,” said 
the Queen “ The mistake was in repeating the repre- 
sentation at all, not in abstaining from appearing in 
it. I should be very sorry that this young lady should 
have been concerned in a spectacle d la comtesse” 

There was something in the intonation of “ this 
young lady ” that won Cis’s heart on the spot, some- 
thing in the concluding words that hurt Susan’s faith- 
ful loyalty towards her kinswoman, in spite of the 
compliment to herself. However Mary did not pursue 
the subject, perceiving witli ready tact that it was dis- 
tasteful, and proceeded to ask Dame Susan’s opinion 
of her work, which was intended as a gift to her good 
aunt, the Abbess of Soissons. How strangely the 
name fell upon Susan’s ear. It was a pale blue satin 
coverlet, worked in large separate squares, innumerable 
shields and heraldic devices of Lorraine, Bourbon, 
France, Scotland, etc., round the border, and beautiful 
meandering patterns of branches, with natural flowers 
and leaves growing from them covering the whole with 
a fascinating regular irregularity. Cis could not repress 
an exclamation of delight, which brought the most 
charming glance of the winning eyes upon her. There 
was stitchery here that she did not understand, but 
when she looked at some of the flowers, she could noj 
help uttering the sentiment that the eyes of the daisies 
were no' as mother could make them. 

So, aj a great favour. Queen Mary entreated to be 
shown Mrs. Talbot’s mode of dealing with the eyes of 
the daisies. No, her good Seaton would not learn so 
well as she should ; Madame must come and sit by 
her and show her. Meantime here was her pocr little 


XI. J QUEEN Mary’s presence chambep 13/ 

Bijou whimperiug to be taken on her lap. Would not 
he find a comforter in sweet Mistress — ah, what was 
her name ? 

“We named her Cicely, so please your Grace,’ said 
Susan, unable to help blushing. 

“ Cdcile, a fair name. Ah ! so the poor Antoine 
called her. I see my Bijou has found a friend in you, 
IMistress Cecile ” — as the girl’s idle hands were only 
too happy to caress the pretty little shivering Italian 
greyhound rather than to be busy with a needle. “ Do 
you ever hear of that young Babington, your play- 
fellow ?” she added. 

“ No, madam,” said Cis, looking up, “ he hath never 
been here !” 

“ I thought not,” said Queen Mary, sighing. “ Take 
heed to manifest no pity for me, maiden, if you should 
ever chance to be inspired with it for a poor worn-out 
old prisoner. It is the sure sentence of misfortune and 
banishment.” 

“ In his sex, madam,” here put in Marie de Cour- 
celles. “ If it were so in ours, woe to some of us.” 

“ That is true, my dear friends,” said Mary, her 
eyes glistening with dew. “ It is the women who are 
the most fearless, the most faithful, and whom the saints 
therefore shield.” 

“ Alas, there are some who are faithful but who are 
not shielded !” 

It was merely a soft low murmur, but the tender- 
hearted Queen had caught it, and rising impulsively, 
crossed the room and gathered Mary Seaton’s hands 
into hers, no longer the queen but the loving friend of 
equal years, soothing her in a low fond voice, and pre- 
sently sending her to the inner chamber to compose 
herself. Then as the Queen returned slowly to her 


138 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

seat it would be seen how lame she was from rheuma- 
tism. Mrs, Kennedy hurried to assist her, with a 
nurse-like word of remonstrance, to which she replied 
with 8 bewitching look of sweetness that she could not 
but forget her aches and pains when she saw her dear 
Mary Seaton in trouble. 

Most politely she then asked whether her visitors 
would object to listening to the conclusion of her day’s 
portion of reading. There was no refusing, of course, 
though, as Susan glanced at the reader and knew him 
to be strongly suspected of being in Holy Orders con- 
ferred abroad, she had her fears for her child’s Protestant 
principles. The book, however, proved to be a trans- 
lation of St. Austin on the Psalms, and, of course, she 
could detect nothing that she disapproved, even if 
Cis had not been far too much absorbed by the little 
dog and its mistress to have any comprehending ears 
for theology. Queen Mary confidentially observed aa 
much to her after the reading, having, no doubt, de- 
tected her uneasy glance, 

“ You need not fear for your child, madam,” she 
said ; “ St. Augustine is respected by your own Queen 
and her Bishops. At the readings with which my good 
Mr. Belton favours me, I take care to have nothing you 
Protestants dispute when I know it,” She added, 
smiling, “ Heaven knows that I have endeavoured to 
understand your faith, and many a minister has argued 
with me. I have done my best to comprehend them, but 
they agreed in nothing but in their abuse of the Pope. 
At least so it seemed to my poor weak mind. But 
you are satisfied, madam, 1 see it in your calm eyes 
and gentle voice. If I see much of you, I shall learn 
to think well of your religion.” 

Susan made an obeisance without answering. She 


XI.] QUEEN maey’s peesence chambee. 139 

had heard Sir Gilbert Talbot say, “ If she tries to per- 
suade you that you can convert her, be sure that she 
means mischief,” but she could not bear to believe it 
anything but a libel while the sweet sad face was gazing 
into hers. 

Queen Mary changed the subject by asking a few 
questions about the Countess’s sudden departure. There 
was a sort of guarded irony suppressed in her tone — she 
was evidently feeling her way with the stranger, and 
when she found that Susan would only own to causes 
Lord Shrewsbury had adduced on the spur of the 
moment, she was much too wary to continue the 
examination, though Susan could not help thinking 
that she knew full well the disturbance which had 
taken place. 

A short walk on the roof above followed. The sun 
was shining brilliantly, and lame as she was, the Queen’s 
strong craving for free air led her to climb her stairs 
and creep to and fro on Sir Andrew Melville’s arm, 
gazing out over the noble prospect of the park close 
below, divided by the winding vales of the three rivers, 
which could be traced up into the woods and the moors 
beyond, purple with spring freshness and glory. Mary 
made her visitors point out Bridgefield, and asked 
questions about all that could be seen of the house 
and pleasance, which, in truth, was little enough, 
but she contrived to set Cis off into a girl’s chatter 
about her home occupations, and would not let her be 
hushed. 

“ You little know the good it does a captive to take 
part, only in fancy, in a free harmless life,” returned 
Mary, with the wistful look that made her eyes so 
pathetic. “ There is no refreshment to me like a child’s 
prattle.’* 


3 40 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [i HAf 

Susan’s heart smote her as she thought of the true 
relations in which these two stood to one another, and 
she forbore from further interference ; but she greatly 
rejoiced when the great bell of the castle gave notice 
of noon, and of her own release. When Queen Mary’s 
dinner was served, the Talbot ladies in attendance left 
her ani repaired to the general family meal in the 
Imll. 


A FUiaOUS LETIEB. 


141 


XU.] 


CHAPTEE XIL 

A FURIOUS LETTER. 

A PERIOD now began of daily penance to Mrs. Talbot, 
of daily excitement and delight to Cis. Two hours or 
more had to be spent in attendance on Queen Mary. 
Even' on Sundays there was no exemption, the visit 
only took place later in the day, so as not to interfere 
with going to church. 

Nothing could be more courteous or more friendly 
than the manner in which the elder lady was always 
received. She was always made welcome by the 
Queen herself, who generally entered into conversation 
with her almost as with an equal. Or when Mary 
herself was engaged in her privy chamber in dictating 
to her secretaries, the ladies of the suite showed them- 
selves equally friendly, and told her of their mistress’s 
satisfaction in having a companion free from all the 
rude and unaccountable humours and caprices of my 
Lady Countess and her daughters. And if Susan was 
favoured, Cis was petted. Queen Mary always liked to 
have young girls about her. Their fresh, spontaneous, 
enthusiastic homage was pleasant to one who loved 
above all to attract, and it was a pleasure to a prisoner 
to have a fresh face about her. 

Was it only this, or was ii the maternal instinct 


142 UNKNCWN TO HISTOEY [ClIAP. 

Miat made her face light up when the young girl 
entered the room and return the shy reverential kiss 
of the hand with a tender kiss on the forehead, that 
made her encourage the chatter, give little touches to 
the deportment, and present little keepsakes, which in- 
creased in value till Sir Eichard began to look grave, 
and to say there must be no more jewels of price 
brought from the lodge ? And as his wife uttered a 
word that sounded like remonstrance, he added, “ Not 
while she passes for my daughter.” 

Cis, who had begun by putting on a pouting face,, 
burst into tears. Her adopted parents had always 
been more tolerant and indulgent to her than if she 
had been a child over whom they felt entire rights, 
and instead of rewarding her petulance with such a 
blow as would have fallen to the lot of a veritable 
Talbot, Eichard shrugged his shoulders and left the 
room — the chamber which had been allotted to Dame 
Susan at the Manor-house, while Susan endeavoured 
to cheer the girl by telling her not to grieve, for her 
father was not angry with her. 

“ Why — why may not the dear good Queen give me 
her dainty gifts ? ” sobbed Cis. 

“ See, dear child,” said Susan, “ while she only gave 
thee an orange stuck with cloves, or an embroidery 
i eedle, or even a puppy dog, it is all very well ; but 
when it comes to Spanish gloves and coral clasps, the 
next time there is an outcry about a plot, some evil- 
disposed person would be sure to say that Master Eichard 
Talbot had been taking bribes through his daughter,” 

“ It would he vilely false ! ” cried Cis with flashing 
eyes. 

“ It would not be the less believed,” said Susan. 
“ My Lord would say we had betrayed our trust, and 


A FURIOUS LETTER. 


14 *^ 


Xll.] 

there never has been one stain on my husband’a 
honour.” 

“ You are wroth with me too, mother ! ” said Cis. 

*' Not if you are a good child, and guard the honoui 
of the name you bear.” 

"I will, I will!” said Cis. “Never will I take 
another gift from the Queen if only you and he wdl 

call me your child, and be — good to me ” The rest 

was lost in tears and in the tender caresses that Susan 
lavished on her ; all the more as she caught the 
broken words, “ Humfrey, too, he would never forgive 
me.” 

Susan told her husband what had passed, adding, 
“ She will keep her word.” 

“ She must, or she shall go no more to the lodge,” 
he said. 

“ You would not have doubted had you seen her 
eye flash at the thought of bringing your honour into 
question. There spoke her kingly blood.” 

“ Well, we shall see,” sighed Eichard, “ if it be 
blood that makes the nature. I fear me hers is but 
that of a Scottish thief I Scorn not w'arniug, mother, 
but watch thy stranger nestling well.” 

“ Nay, mine husband. While we own her as our 
child, she will do anything to be one with us. It is 
when we seem to put her from us that we wound her 
so that I know not what she might do, fondled as she 
is — by — by her who — has the best right to the dear 
child.” 

Eichard uttered a certain exclamation of disgust 
which silenced his discreet wife. 

Neither of them had quite anticipated the result, 
namely, that the next morning, Cis, after kissing the 
Queen’s hand as usual, remained kneeling, her bosom 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


U4 


[chap 


heaving, and a little stammering on her tongue, while 
tears rose to her eyes. 

“ What is it, mignonne,” said Mary, kindly ; “ is the 
whelp dead ? or is the clasp broken ? ” 

“ No, madam ; but — hut 1 pray you give me no 
more gifts. My father says it touches his honour, and 
I have promised him — Oh, madam, be not displeased 
with me, hut let me give you back your last beauteous 
gift.” 

Mary was standing by the fire. She took the 
ivory and coral trinket from the hand of the kneeling 
girl, and dashed it into the hottest glow. There was 
passion in the action, and in the kindling eye, but it 
was but for a moment. Before Cis could speak or 
Susan begin her excuses, the delicate hand was laid on 
the girl’s head, and a calm voice said, “ Fear not, child. 
Queens take not back their gifts. I ought to have 
borne in mind that I am balked of the pleasure of 
giving — the best of all the joys they have robbed me 
of But tremble not, sweetheart, I am not chafed 
with thee. I will vex thy father no more. Better 
thou shouldst go without a trinket or two than deprive 
me of the light of that silly little face of thine, so long 
as they will leave me that sunbeam.” 

She stooped and kissed the drooping brow, and 
Susan could not but feel as if the voice of nature were 
indeed speaking. 

A few words of apology in her character of mother 
for the maiden’s abrupt proceeding were met by the 
Queen most graciously. “ Spare thy words, good 
madam. We understand and reverence Mr. Talbot’s 
point of honour. Would that all who approached us 
had held his scruples ! ” 

Perhaps Mary was after this more distant an»l 


A Fumous LETTER. 


14£ 


'Tll.J 

dignified towards the matron, hut especially tendei 
and caressing towards the maiden, as if to make up by 
kindness for the absence of little gifts. 

Storms, however, were brewing without. I>ady 
Shrewsbury made open complaints of her husband 
having become one of Mary’s many victims, represent- 
ing herself as an injured wife driven out of her house. 
She actually in her rage carried the complaint to 
Queen Elizabeth, who sent down two commissioners 
to inquire into the matter. They sat in the castle 
hall, and examined all the attendants, including Eichard 
and his wife. The investigation was extremely painful 
and distressing, but it was proved that nothing could 
have been more correct and guarded than the whole 
intercourse between the Earl and his prisoner. If he 
had erred, it had been on the side of caution and 
severity, though he had always preserved the courteous 
demeanour of a gentleman, and had been rejoiced to 
permit whatever indulgences could be granted. If 
there had been any transgressions of the strict rules, 
tliey had been made by the Countess herself and her 
daughters in the days of their intimacy with the 
Queen ; and the aspersions on the unfortunate Earl 
were, it was soon evident, merely due to the violent and 
unscrupulous tongues of the Countess and her daughter 
Mary. No wonder that Lord Shrewsbury wrote letters 
i.i which he termed the lady “ his wicked and malicious 
wife,” and expressed his conviction that his son GEbert’s 
mind had been perverted by her daughter. 

The indignation of the captive Queen was fully 
equal to his, as one after another of her little couri 
returned and was made to detail the points on which 
he or she had been interrogated. Susan found hex 
pacing up and down the floor like a caged tigress, hef 
L 


146 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[' . 


cap and veil thrown back, so that her hair — far whitei 
than what was usually displayed — was hanging di- 
shevelled, her ruff torn open, as if it choked back the 
swelling passion in her throat. 

“ Never, never content with persecuting me, they 
must insult me ! Is it not enough that I am stripped 
of my crown, deprived of my friends ; that I cannot 
take a step beyond this chamber, queen as I am, with- 
out my warder ? Must they attaint me as a woman ? 
Oh, why, why did the doom spare me that took my 
little brothers ? Why did I live to be the most 
wretched, not of sovereigns alone, but of women ? ” 

“ Madam,” entreated Marie de Courcelles, “ dearest 
madam, take courage. All these horrible charges 
refute themselves.” 

“ Ah, Marie ! you have said so ten thousand times, 
and what charge has ever been dropped ?” 

“This one is dropped!” exclaimed Susan, coming 
forward. “ Yes, your Grace, indeed it is ! The Com- 
missioner himself told my husband that no one believed 
it for a moment.” 

“Then why should these men have been sent but 
to sting and gall me, and make me feel that I am in 
their power ?” cried the Queen. 

“ They came,” said the Secretary Curll, “ because 
thus alone could the Countess be silenced.” 

“ The Countess 1” exclaimed Mary. “ So my cousin 
hath listened to her tongue !” 

“ Backed by her daughter’s,” added Jean Kennedy. 

“ It were well that she knew what those two dames 
can say of her Majesty herself, when it serves them,” 
added Marie de Courcelles. 

“That shall she'” exclaimed Mary. * She shall 
have it from mine own hand ! Ha ! ha ! Elizabeth 


A FURIOUS LETTER. 


147 


xil] 

shall know the choice tales wherewith Mary Talbot 
hath regaled us, and then shall she judge how far any- 
thing that conies from my young lady is worth heeding 
for a moment. Eemember you all the tales of the 
nips and the pinches ? Ay, and of all the endear- 
ments to Leicester and to Hatton ? She shall have it 
all, and try how she likes the dish of scandal of Mary 
Talbot’s cookery, sauced by Bess of Hardwicke. Here, 
nurse, come and set this head-gear of mine in order, 
and do you, my good Ciirll, have pen, ink, and paper 
in readiness for me.” 

The Queen did little but write that morning. The 
next day, on coming out from morning prayers, which 
the Protestants of her suite attended, with the rest of 
the Shrewsbury household, Barbara Mowbray con- 
trived to draw Mrs. Talbot apart as they went towards 
the lodge, 

“ Madam,” she said, “ they all tallc of your power to 
persuade. Now is the time you could do what would 
be no small service to this poor Queen, ay, and it may 
be to your own children.” 

“ I may not meddle in any matters of the Queen’s,” 
returned Susan, rather stiffly. 

“ Nay, but hear me, madam. It is only to hinder 
the sending of a letter.” 

" That letter which her Grace was about to write 
yesterday ?” 

“ Even so. ’Tis no secret, for she read fragments 
of it aloud, and all her wmmen applauded it with all 
their might, and laughed over the stings that it would 
give, but Mr. Curll, who had to copy it, saith that there 
is a bitterness in it that can do nothing but make her 
Majesty of England the more inflamed, not only 
against my Lady Shrewsbury, but against her who writ 


148 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


the letter, and all concerned. Why, she hath even 
brought in the comedy that your children acted in the 
woodland, and that was afterwards repeated in the 
hall !” 

“ You say not so. Mistress Barbara ?” 

“ Indeed I do. Mr. Cuill and Sir Andrew Mel- 
ville are both of them sore vexed, and would fain 
have her withdraw it; but Master Nau and all the 
French part of the household know not how to rejoice 
enough at such an exposure of my Lady, which gives a 
hard fling at Queen Elizabeth at the same time ! Nay. 
I cannot but tell you that there are things in it that 
Dame Mary Talbot might indeed say, but I know 
not how Queen Mary could bring herself to sit 
down ” 

Barbara Mowbray ventured no more, and Susan felt 
hopeless of her task, since how was she by any means 
to betray knowledge of the contents of the letter ? Yet 
much that she had heard made her feel very uneasy 
on all accounts. She had too much strong family 
regard for the Countess and for Gilbert Talbot and his 
wife to hear willingly of what might imperil them, 
and though royal indignation w’ould probably fly over 
the heads of the children, no one was too obscure in 
those Tudor times to stand in danger from a sovereign 
who might think herself insulted. Yet as a Hard- 
wicke, and the wife of a Talbot, it was most unlikely 
that she would have any opening for remonstrance 
given to her. 

However, it was possible that Curll wished to give 
her an opening, for no sooner were the ladies settled at 
work than he bowed himself forward and offered his 
mistress his copy of the letter. 

“ Is it fair engrossed, good Curll ? ” asked Mary 


A FUKIOUS LEITER. 


149 


xil] 

“Thanks. Then will we keep your copy, and you 
shall fold and prepare our own for our sealing.” 

“ Will not your Majesty hear it read over ere it 
pass out of your hands ?” asked Curll. 

“ Even so,” returned Mary, who really was delighted 
with the pungency of her own composition. “ Mayhap 
we may have a point or two to add.” 

After what Mistress Barbara had said, Susan was 
on thorns that Cis should hear the letter; hut that 
good young lady, hating the expressions therein her- 
self, and hating it still more for the girl, bethought her 
of asking permission to take Mistress Cicely to her 
own chamber, there to assist her in the folding of some 
of her laces, and Mary consented. It was well, for 
there was much that made the English-bred Susan’s 
cheeks glow and her ears tingle. 

But, at least, it gave her a great opportunity. 
Wlien the letter was finished, she advanced and knelt 
on the step of the canopied chair, saying, “Madam, 
pardon me, if in the name of my unfortunate children, 
I entreat you not to accuse them to the Queen.” 

“ Your children, lady ! How have I included them 
in what I have told her Majesty of our sweet 
Countess ? ” 

“ Your Grace wiU remember that the foremost parts 
in yonder farce were allotted to my son Humfrey and 
to young Master Babington. Nay, that the whole 
arose from the woodland sport of little Cis, which youi 
Grace was pleased to admire.” 

“ Sooth enough, my good gossip, but none could 
suspect the poor children of the malice my Lady 
Countess contrived to put into the matter.” 

“Ah, madam ! these are times when it is convenient to 
shift the blame on one who can be securely punished.” 


150 


UNKlrOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


“ Certes,” said Mary, thoughtfully, “ the Countess is 
capable of making her escape by denouncing some one 
else, especially those within her own reach.” 

“ Your Grace, who can speak such truth of my pool 
I.ady,” said Susan, “ will also remember that though my 
Inrd did yield to the persuasions of the young ladies, 
he so heedfully caused Master Sniggius to omit all 
perilous matter, that no one not informed would have 
guessed at the import of the piece, as it was played in 
the hall.” 

“ Most assuredly not,” said Mary, laughing a little 
at the recollection. “ It might have been played in 
Westminster Hall without putting my gracious coasin, 
ay, or Leicester and Hatton themselves, to the blush.” 

“ Thus, if the Queen should take the matter up and 
trace it home, it could not but be brought to my poor 
innocent children ! Humfrey is for the nonce out of 
reach, but the maiden — I wis verily that your High- 
ness would be loath to do her any hurt !” 

“Thou art a good pleader, madam,” said the 
queen. “ Verily I should not like to bring the bonnie 
lassie into trouble. It will give Master Curll a little 
more toil, ay and myself likewise, for the matter must 
stand in mine own hand ; but we will leave out yonder 
unlucky farce.” 

“ Your Highness is very good,” said Susan earnestly. 

“Yet you look not yet content, my good lady. 
What more would you have of me ?” 

“ What your Majesty will scarce grant,” said Susan. 

“ .Ha ! thou art of the same house thyself. I had 
forgotten it ; thou art so unlike to them. I wager that 
it is not to send this same letter at all.” 

“Your Highness hath guessed my mind. Nay, 
madam, though assuredly I do desire it because the 


A FUIUOUS LETTER. 


151 


XII.] 

Countess hath been ever my good lady, and bred me 
up ever since I was an orphan, it is not solely for her 
sake that I would fain pray you, but fully as much for 
your Majesty’s own.” 

“ Madame Talbot sees the matter as I do,” said Sii 
Andrew Melville. “ The English Queen is as like to 
be irate with the reporter of the scandal as with the 
author of it, even as the wolf bites the barb that pierces 
him when he cannot reach the archer.” 

“ She is welcome to read the letter,” said Mary, 
smiling ; “ thy semblance falleth short, my good friend.” 

“ Nay, madam, tliat was not the whole of my pur- 
port,” said Susan, standing with folded hands, looking 
from one to another. “ Pardon me. My thought was 
that to take part in all this repeating of thoughtless, 
idle words, spoken foolishly indeed, but scarce so much 
in malice as to amuse your Grace with Court news, 
and treasured up so long, your Majesty descends from 
being the patient and suffering princess, meek, generous, 
and uncomplaining, to be — to be ” 

“ No better than one of them, wouldst thou add ?” 
asked Mary, somewhat sharply, as Susan paused. 

“ Your Highness has said it,” answered Susan ; 
then, as there was a moment’s pause, she looked up, 
and with clasped hands added, " Oh, madam ! would 
it not be more worthy, more noble, more queenly, more 
Christian, to refrain from stinging with ih s repetition 
of these vain and foolish slanders?” 

“ Most Christian treatment have I met with,” re- 
turned Mary ; but after a pause she turned to her 
almoner. Master Belton, saying, “ What say you, sir ? ” 

“I say that Mrs. Talbot speaks more Christian 
words than are often heard in these parts,” returned 
he. “The thaukworthiness of suffering is lost by 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


152 


[chap. 


chose who return the revilings upon those who uttei 
them.” 

“Then be it so,” returned the Queen. “Elizabetli 
shall be spared the knowledge that some ladies’ tongues 
can be as busy with her as with her poor cousin.” 

Witli her owni hands Mary tore up her own letter, 
but Curll’s copy unfortunately escaped destruction, to 
be disco verofl in after times. I^ord and Lady Shrews- 
bury never knew the service Susan had rendered them 
by causing it to be suppressed. 


BEADS AND BKACELETa 


153 


xui.] 


CHAPTEE XIIL 

BEADS AND BRACELETS. 

The Countess was by no means pacified by the inves- 
tigation, and both she and her family remained at 
Court, maligning her husband and his captive. As 
the season advanced, bringing the time for the Queen’s 
annual resort to the waters of Buxton, Lord Shrews- 
bury was obliged to entreat Mrs. Talbot again to be 
her companion, declaring that he had never known so 
much peace as with that lady in the Queen’s chambers. 

The journey to Buxton was always the great holi- 
day of the imprisoned Court. The place was part of 
the Shrewsbury property, and the Earl had a great 
house there, but there were no conveniences for exer- 
cising so strict a watch as at Sheffield, and there was 
altogether a relaxation of discipline. Exercise was 
considered an essential part of the treatment, and 
recreations were there provided. 

Cis had heard so much of the charms of the ex- 
pedition, that she was enraptured to hear that she was 
to share it, together with Mrs. Talbot. The only 
ilrawback was that Humfrey had promised to come 
home after this present voyage, to see whether his 
little Cis were ready for him; and his father was much 
disposed to remain at home, receive him first, and 


154 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

communicHte to him the obstacles in the way of 
wedding the young lady. However, my Lord refused 
to dispense with the attendance of his most trust- 
worthy kinsman, and leaving Ned at school under 
charge of the learned Sniggius, the elder and the 
younger Eichard Talbot rode forth with the retinue 
of the Queen and her warder. 

Neither Cicely nor Diccon had ever left home be- 
fore, and they were in raptures which would have 
made any journey delightful to them, far more a ride 
through some of the wildest and loveliest glades that 
England can display. Nay, it may be that they 
would better have enjoyed something less like Shef- 
field Park than the rocks, glens, and woods, through 
which they rode. Their real delight was in the towns 
and villages at which there was a halt, and every 
traveller they saw was such a wonder to them, that at 
the end of the first day they were almost as full of 
exultation in their experiences, as if, with Humfrey, 
they had been far on the way to America. 

The delight of sleeping at Tideswell was in their 
eyes extreme, though the hostel was so crowded that 
Cis had to share a mattress with Mrs. Talbot, and 
Diccon had to sleep in his cloak on the floor, which he 
persuaded himself was high preferment. He woke, 
however, much sooner than was his wont, and finding 
it useless to try to fall asleep again, he made his way 
out among the sleeping figures on the floor and hall, 
and finding the fountain in the midst of the court, 
produced his soap and comb from his pocket, and 
made his morning toilet in the open air with consider- 
able satisfaction at his own alertness. Presently there 
was a tap at the window above, and he saw Cicely 
making signals to him to wait for her, and in a few 


BEADS AND BEACELETS. 


XIII.] 


155 


minutes she skipped out from the door into the sun- 
light of the early summer morning. 

“ No one is awake yet,” she said. “ Even the guard 
before the Queen’s door is fast asleep. I only heard 
a wench or two stirring. We can have a run in the 
fields and gather May dew before any one is afoot.” 

“ ’Tis not May, ’tis June,” said matter-of-fact 
Diccon. “ But yonder is a guard at the yard gate ; 
will he let us past ?” 

“ See, here’s a little wicket into a garden of pot- 
herbs,” said Cis. “No doubt we can get out that 
way, and it will bring us the sooner into the fields. 
I have a cake in my wallet that mother gave me for 
the journey, so we shall not fast. How sweet the 
herbs smell in the dew — and see how silvery it Lies 
on the strawberry leaves. Ah ! thou naughty lad, 
think not whether the fruit be ripe. Mayhap we shall 
find some wild ones beyond.” 

The gate of the garden was likewise guarded, but 
by a yeoman who well knew the young Talbots, and 
made no difficulty about letting them out into the 
broken ground beyond the garden, sloping up into a 
little hill. Up bounded the boy and girl, like young 
mountaineers, through gorse and fern, and presently 
had gained a sufficient height to look over the country, 
marking the valleys whence still were rising “ fragrant 
clouds of dewy steam ” under the influence of the sun- 
beams, gazing up at the purple heights of the Peak, 
where a few lines of snow still lingered in the crevices, 
trying to track their past journey from their own 
Sheffield, and with still more interest to guess which 
wooded valley before them contained Buxton. 

“ Have you lost your way, my pretty mistress ?” 
said a voice close to them, and turning round hastily 


i5G UNKNOWN TO (ISTORY. CHAP 

they saw a peasant woman with a large basket on hei 
arm. 

“ No,” said Cicely courteously, “ we have only come 
out to take the air before breakfast.” 

“ I crave pardon,” said the woman, curtseying, “the 
pretty lady belongs to the great folk down yonder. 
Would she look at my poor wares ? Here are beads 
and trinkets of the goodly stones, pins and collars, 
bracelets and eardrops, white, yellow, and purple,” she 
said, uncovering her basket, where were arranged 
various ornaments made of Derbyshire spar. 

“We have no money, good woman,” said Cicely, 
rising to return, vaguely uncomfortable at the woman’s 
eye, which awoke some remembrance of Tibbott the 
huckster, and the troubles connected with her. 

“ Yea, but if my young mistress would only bring 
me in to the Great Lady there, I know she would 
buy of me my beads and bracelets, or give me an alms 
for my poor children. I have five of them, good 
young lady, and they lie naked and hungry .till I can 
sell my few poor wares, and the yeomen are so rough 
and bard. They would break and trample every poor 
bead I have in pieces rather than even let my Lord 
hear of them. But if even my basket could be carried 
in and shown, and if the good Earl heard my sad 
tale, I am sure he would give license.” 

“ He never does ! ” said Diccon, roughly ; “ hold off, 
woman, do not hang on us, or I’ll get thee branded for 
a vagabond.” 

The woman put her knuckles into her eyes, and 
wailed out that it was all for her poor children, and 
Cicely reproved him for his roughness, and as the 
woman kept close behind them, wailing, moaning, and 
persuading, the boy and girl were wrought upon at 


BEADS AND BRACELETS. 


157 


xiil] 

last to give her leave to wait outside the gate of the 
inn garden, while they saw whether it was possible to 
admit her or her basket. 

But before they reached the gate, they saw a figure 
beyond it, scanning the hill eagerly. They knew 
liim for their father even before he shouted to them, 
and, as they approached, his voice was displeased : 
•' How now, children ; what manners are these ? ” 

“We have only been on the hillside, sweet father,” 
said Cis, “ Diccon and I together. We thought no harm.” 

“ This is not Sheffield Chace, Cis, and thou art 
no more a child, but a maiden who needs to be dis- 
creet, above all in these times. Whom did I see 
following you ? ” 

“ A poor woman, whom — Ha, where is she ? ” 
exclaimed Cis, suddenly perceiving that the woman 
seemed to have vanished. 

“ A troublesome begging woman who beset us with 
her wares,” said Diccon, “and would give us no peace, 
praying that we would get them carried in to the Queen 
and her ladies, whining about her children till she made 
Cis soft-hearted. Where can she have hidden herself ? ” 

The man who was stationed as sentry at the gate 
said he had seen the woman come over the brow of 
the hill with Master Diccon and Mistress Cicely, but 
that as they ran forward to meet Captain Talbot she 
had disappeared amid the rocks and brushwood. 

“ Poor woman, she was afraid of our father,” said 
Cicely ; “ I would we could see her again.” 

“ So would not I,” said Eichard. “ It looks not well, 
and heed me well, children, there must be no more of 
these pranks, nor of wandering out of bounds, or 
babbling with strangers. Go thou in to thy mother 
Cis, she. hath been in much trouble for thee.” 


158 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CH>V. 

Mistress Susan was unusually severe with the girl 
on the indiscretion of gadding in strange places with 
no better escort than Diccon, and of entering into con- 
versation with unknown persons. Moreover, Cicely’s 
hair, her shoes, and camlet riding skirt were all so 
dank with dew that she was with difficulty made pre- 
sentable by the time the horses were brought round. 
The Queen, who had not seen the girl that morning, 
made her come and ride near her, asking questions on 
the escapade, and giving one of her bewitching pathetic 
smiles as she said how she envied the power of thus 
dancing out on the greensward, and breathing the free 
and fresh morning air. “ My Scottish blood loves the 
mountains, and bounds the more freely in the fresh 
breeze,” she said, gazing towards the Peak. “ I love 
the scent of the dew. Didst get into trouble, child ? 
Methought I heard sounds of chiding ? ” 

“ It was no fault of mine,” said Cis, inclined to 
complain when she found sympathy, “ the woman 
would speak to us.” 

“ What woman ? ” asked the Queen. 

“A poor woman with a basket of wares, who 
prayed hard to be allowed to show them to your 
Grace or some of the ladies. She said she had five 
sorely hungered children, and that she heard youx 
Grace was a compassionate lady.” 

“ Woe is me, compassion is full all that I am 
permitted to give,” said the Queen, sadly; “ she brought 
trinkets to sell. What were her wares, saidst thou ? ” 
I had no time to see many,” said Cis, “ something 
pure and white like a new-laid egg, I saw, and a 
(lecklet, clouded with beauteous purple.” 

“Ay, beads and bracelets, no doubt,” said the 
Queen. 


XIII.] BEADS ./AD BRACELETS. 159 

“ Yes, beads and bracelets,” returned Cicely, the 
soft chime of the Queen’s Scottish accent bringing 
back to her that the woman had twice pressed on her 
beads and bracelets. 

" She dwelt on them,” said the Queen lightly. 
“ Ay, I know the chant of the poor folk who ever 
hover about our outskirts in hopes to sell their country 
gewgaws, beads and bracelets, collars and pins, little 
guessing that she whom they seek is poorer than them- 
selves. Mayhap, our Argus-eyed lord may yet let the 
poor dame within his fence, and we may be able to 
gratify thy longing for those same purple and white 
beads and bracelets.” 

Meantime the party were riding on, intending to 
dine at Buxton, which meant to reach it by noonday. 
The tall roof of the great hall erected by the Earl 
over the baths was already coming in sight, and by 
and by they would look into the valley. The Wye, 
after coming down one of those lovely deep ravines to 
be found in all mountainous countries, here flowed 
through a more open space, part of which had been 
artificially levelled, but which was covered with 
buildings, rising out amongst the rocks and trees. 

Most conspicuous among them was a large freshly- 
built erection in Tudor architecture, with a wide 
portal arch, and five separate gables starting from one 
central building, which bore a large clock-tower, and 
was decorated at every corner with the Talbots’ stout 
and sturdy form. This was the great hall, built by the 
present Earl George, and containing five baths, intended 
to serve separately for each sex, gentle and simple, with 
one special bath reserved for the sole use of the more 
distinguished visitors. Besides this, at no great distance, 
was the Earl’s own mansion, “ a very goodly house, foui 


160 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CBLAP. 

square, four stories high,” with stables, . lices, and all 
the requisites of a nobleman’s establishment, and this 
was to be the lodging of the Scottish Queen. 

Farther off was another house, which had been 
built by permission of the Earl, under the auspices of 
Dr. Jones, probably one of the first of the long series 
of physicians who have made it their business to 
enhance the fame of the watering-places where they 
have set up their staff. This was the great hostel or 
lodging-house for the patients of condition who re- 
sorted to the healing springs, and nestled here and 
there among the rocks were cottages which accom- 
modated, after a fashion, the poorer sort, who might 
drag themselves to the spot in the hope of washing 
away their rheumatic pains and other infirmities. In 
a distant and magnificent way, like some of the lesser 
German potentates, the mighty Lord of Shrewsbury 
took toll from the visitors to his baths, and this con- 
tributed to repair the ravages to his fortune caused by 
the maintenance of his royal captive. 

Arriving just at noontide, the Queen and her escort 
beheld a motley crowd dispersed about the sward on 
the banks of the river, some playing at ball, others 
resting on benches or walking up and down in groups, 
exercise being recommended as part of the cure. All 
thronged together to watch the Earl and his captive 
ride in with their suite, the household turning out to 
meet them, while foremost stood a dapper little figure 
with a short black cloak, a stiff round ruff, and a 
square barrett cap, with a gold -headed cane in one 
hand and a paper in the other. 

“Prepare thy patience, Cis,” whispered Barbara 
Mowbray, “ now shall we not be allowed to alight 
from our palfreys till we have heard his fuU welcome 


xiil] 


BEADS AND BRACELETS. 


161 


to my Lord, and all his plans for this place, how it is 
to be made a sanctuary for the sick during their abode 
there for all causes saving sacrilege, treason, murder, 
burglary, and highway robbery, with a license to eat 
hesh on a Friday, as long as they are drinking the 
waters !” 

It was as ]\Iistress Mowbray said. Dr. Jones’s 
harangue on tlie progress of Buxton and its prospects 
had always to Le endured before any one was allowed 
to dismount; but royalty and nobility were inured to 
listening with a good grace, and Mary, though wearied 
and aching, sat patiently in the hot sunshine, and was 
ready to declare that Buxton put her in good humour. 
In fact the grandees and their immediate attendants 
endured with all the grace of good breeding; but the 
farther from the scene of action, the less was the 
patience, and the more restless and confused the 
movements of the retinue. 

Diccon Talbot, hungry and eager, had let his 
equally restless pony convey him, he scarce knew 
where, from his father’s side, when he saw, making her 
way among the horses, the very woman with the basket 
whom he had encountered at Tideswell in the early 
morning. How could she have gone such a distance 
in the time? thought the boy, and he presently caught 
the words addressed to one of the grooms of the Scot- 
tish Queen’s suite. " Let me show my poor heads and 
hracelets." The Scotsman instantly made way for her, 
and she advanced to a wizened thin old Frenchman, 
Maitre Gorion, the Queen’s surgeon, who jumped down 
from his horse, and was soon bending over her basket 
exchanging whispers in the lowest possible tones ; but 
a surge among those in the rear drove Diccon up so 
near that he was absolutely, ceriain that they were 

M 


162 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP, 

speaking French, as indeed he well knew that M. 
Gorion never could succeed in making himself under- 
stood in English. 

The boy, bred up in the perpetual caution and 
suspicion of Sheffield, was eager to denounce one who 
he was sure was a conspirator ; but he was hemmed in 
among horses and men, so that he could not make his 
way out or see what was passing, till suddenly there 
was a scattering to the right and left, and a simulta- 
neous shriek from the ladies in front. 

When Diccon could see anything, his father was 
pressing forward to a group round some one prostrate 
on the ground before the house, and there were ex- 
clamations, “ The poor young lady ! The chirurgeon ! 
To the front, the Queen is asking for you, sir,” and 
Cicely’s horse with loose bridle passed before his eyes. 

“ Let me through ! let me through !” cried the boy ; 
“ it is my sister.” 

He threw his bridle to a groom., and, squeezing 
between horses and under * elbows, succeeded in seeing 
Cis lying on the ground with her eyes shut and her 
head in his mother’s lap, and the French surgeon 
bending over her. She gave a cry when he touched her 
arm, and he said something in his mixture of French 
and EngUsh, which Diccon could not hear. The 
Queen stood close by, a good deal agitated, anxiously 
asking questions, and throwing out her hands in her 
French fashion. Diccon, much frightened, struggled 
on, but only reached the party just as his father had 
gathered Cicely up in his arms to carry her upstairs. 
Diccon followed as closely as he could, but blindly in 
the crowd in the strange house, until he found him- 
self in 9 long gallery, shut out, among various others 
of both sexes. “ Come, my masters and mistresses all," 


BEADS AND BRACELETS. 


163 


XIII.] 

said the voice of the seneschal, “ you had best to your 
chambers, there is naught for you to do here,” 

However, he allowed Diccon to remain leaning 
against the balustrade of the stairs which led up out- 
side the house, and in another minute his father came 
out. “ Ha, Diccon, that is well,” said he. “ Ho, tliou 
canst not enter. They are about to undress poor little 
Cis. Nay, it seemed not to me that she was more 
hurt than thy mother could well have dealt with, hut 
the French surgeon would thrust in, and the Queen 
would have it so. We will walk here in the court till 
we hear what he saith of her. How befell it, dost 
thou ask ? Truly I can hardly tell, hut I believe one 
of the Frenchmen’s horses got restless, either with a 
fly or with standing so long to hear yonder leech’s 
discourse. He must needs cut the beast with his rod, 
and so managed to hit White Posy, who starts aside, 
and Cis, sitting unheedfully on that new-fangled French 
saddle, was thrown in an instant.” 

“ I shall laugh at her well for letting herself be 
thrown by a Frenchman with his switch,” said 
Diccon. 

“ I hope the damage hath not been great,” said his 
father, anxiously looking up the stair, “ Where wast 
thou, Dick ? I had lost sight of thee.” 

was seeking you, sir, for I had seen a strange 
sight,” said Dick. “ That woman who spoke with us 
at Tideswell was here again ; yea, and she talked with 
the little old Frenchman that they caU Gorion, the 
same that is with Cis now.” 

" She did ! Folly, boy ! The fellow can hardly 
comprehend five words of plain English together, long 
as he hath been here ! One of the Queen’s women is 
gone in even now to interpret for him.” 


164 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAl* 

“ That do I wot, sir. Therefore did I marvel, and 
sought to tell you.” 

“ Wliat like was the woman ? ” demanded Richard. 

Diccon’s description was lame, and his father bade 
him hasten out of the court, and fetch the woman if he 
could find her displaying her trinkets to the water- 
drinkers, instructing him not to alarm her by per- 
emptory commands, but to give her hopes of a purchaser 
for her spars. Proud of the commission entrusted to 
him, the boy sallied forth, but though he wandered 
through aU the groups on the sward, and encountered 
two tumblers and one puppet show, besides a bear and 
monkey, he utterly failed in finding the vendor of the 
1 <«ads and bracelets. 


XIV.J 


THE MOHOGEAMa 


165 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE MONOGRAMa 

When Cicely had been carried into a chamber 
by Master Talbot, and laid haK - conscious and 
moaning on the grand carved bed, Mrs. Talbot by 
word and gesture expelled all superfluous spectators. 
She would have preferred examining alone into the 
injury sustained by the maiden, which she did not 
think beyond her own management ; but there was no 
refusing the services of Maltre Gorion, or of Mrs. 
Kennedy, who indeed treated her authoritatively, 
assuming the direction of the sick-room. She found 
herself acting under their orders as she undid the 
boddice, while Mrs. Kennedy ripped up the tight 
sleeve of the riding dress, and laid bare the arm and 
shoulder, which had been severely bruised and twisted, 
but neither broken nor dislocated, as Mrs. Kennedy 
informed her, after a few rapid words from the French- 
man, unintelligible to the English lady, who felt some- 
what impatient of this invasion of her privileges, and 
was ready to say she had never supposed any such 
thing. 

The chirurgeon skipped to the door, and for a 
moment she hoped that she was rid of him, but he had 
only gone to bring in a neat case with which his 


lOG UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CIIAr. 

groom was in waiting outside, whence he extracted a 
lotion and sponge, speaking rapidly as he did so. 

“ Now, madam,” said Jean Kennedy, “ lift the 
lassie, there, turn back her boddice, and we will bathe 
her shouther. So ! By my halidome !” 

“ Ah ! Mart de ma vie r 

The two exclamations darted simultaneously from 
the lips of the Scottish nurse and the French doctor. 
Susan beheld what she had at the moment forgotten, 
the curious mark branded on her nursling’s shoulder, 
which indeed she had not seen since Cicely had been 
of an age to have the care of her own person, and 
which was out of the girl’s own sight. No more 
was said at the moment, for Cis was reviving fast, 
and was so much bewildered and frightened that she 
required all the attention and soothing that the two 
women could give, but when they removed the rest of 
her clothing, so that she might be laid down comfort- 
ably to rest, ]\Irs. Kennedy by another dexterous move- 
ment uncovered enough of the other shoulder to obtain 
a glimpse of the monogram upon it. 

Nothing was spoken. Those two had not been sc 
many years attendants on a suspected and imprisoned 
queen without being prudent and cautious ; but when 
they quitted the apartment after administering a febri- 
fuge, Susan felt a pang of wonder, whether they were 
about to communicate their discovery to their mistress. 
For the next quarter of an hour, the patient needed all 
her attention, and there was no possibility of obeying the 
summons of a great clanging bell which announced dinner. 
When, however, Cis had fallen asleep it became possible 
to think over the situation. She foresaw an inquiry, 
and would have given much for a few words with her 
husband ; but reflection showed her that the one point 


THE MONOGRAMS. 


167 


XIV.] 

essential to his safety was not to be .jay that he and 
she had any previous knowledge of the rank of theii 
nursling. The existence of the scroll might have ‘o 
be acknowledged, but to show that Eichard had de- 
ciphered it would put him in danger on all hanrls. 

She had just made up her mind on this point when 
there was a knock at the door, and ]\Irs. Kennedy bore 
in a salver with a cup of wine, and took from an 
attendant, who remained outside, a tray with some 
more solid food, which she placed on the broad edge 
of the deep-set window, and coming to the bedside, 
invited Mrs. Talbot to eat, while she watched the girl. 
Susan complied, though with little appetite, and Mrs. 
Kennedy, after standing for a few minutes in contem- 
plation, came to the window. She was a tall woman, 
her yellow hair softened by an admixture of gray, her 
eyes keen and shrewd, yet capable of great tenderness 
at times, her features certainly not youthful, but not 
a whit more aged than they had been when Susan had 
first seen her fourteen years ago. It was a quiet mouth, 
and one that gave a sense of trust both in its firmness, 
secrecy, and kindness. 

“Madam,” said she, in her soft Scotch voice, 
lowered considerably, but not whispering, and with 
her keen eyes fixed on Susan — “ Madam, what garred 
ye gie your bit lassie yonder marks ? Ye need not 
fear, that draught of Maister Gorion’s will keep her 
sleeping fast for a good hour or two longer, and it 
behoves me to ken how she cam by yonder brands.” 

“ She had them when she came to us,” said Susan. 

“ YeTl no persuade me that they are birth marks,” 
returned Mistress Jean. “Such a thing would be a 
miracle in a loyal Scottish Catholic’s wean, let alone an 
English heretic’s,” 


168 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY, [CIIAP. 

“ No,” said Susan, who had in fact only made the 
answer to give herself time to think whether it were 
possible to summon her husband. “They never seemed 
to me birth marks.” 

“Woman,” said Jean Kennedy, laying a strong, 
though soft hand, on her wrist, “ this is not gear for 
trifling. Is the lass your ain bairn ? Ha ! I always 
thought she had mair of the kindly Scot than of the 
Southron about her. Hech ! so they made the puii 
wean captive ! Wha gave her till you to keep ? Your 
lord, I trow.” 

“The Lord of heaven and earth,” replied Susan. 
“ My husband took her, the only living thing left on a 
wreck off the Spurn Head.” 

“ Hech, sirs !” exclaimed Mrs. Kennedy, evidently 
much struck, but still exercising great self-command. 
“ And when fell this out ?” 

“ Two days after Low Sunday, in the year of grace 
1568,” returned Susan. 

“ My halidome !” again ejaculated Jean, in a low 
voice, crossing herself. “ And what became of honest 
Ailie — I mean,” catching herself up, “ what befell those 
that went with her ?” 

“Not one lived,” said Susan, gravely. “Tlie mate 
of my husband’s ship took the little one from the arms 
of her nurse, who seemed to have been left alone with 
her by the crew, lashed to the wreck, and to have had 
her life freshly beaten out by the winds and waves, for 
she was still warm. I was then lying at Hull, and 
they brought the babe to me, while there was still time 
to save her life, with God’s blessing.” 

“ And the vessel ?” asked Jean. 

“ My husband held it to be the Bride of Dunban 
plying between Dumbarton and Harfleur.” 


XIV.] 


THE MONOGRAMS. 


169 


“Ay! aj ! Blessed St. Bride!” muttered Jean 
Kennedy, with an awe-stricken look ; then, collecting 
herself, she added, “ Were there np tokens, save these, 
about the little one, by which she could be known ? ” 

“ There was a gold chain with a cross, and what 
you call a reliquary about her Kttle neck, and a scroll 
written in cipher among her swaddling bands ; but they 
are laid up at home, at Bridgefield.” 

It was a perplexing situation for this simple-hearted 
and truthful woman, and, on the other hand, Jean 
Kennedy was no less devoted and loyal in her own 
line, a good and conscientious woman, but shrewder, 
and, by nature and breeding, -far less scrupulous as to 
absolute truth. 

The one idea that Susan, in her confusion, could 
keep hold of was that any admission of knowledge as 
to who her Cis really was, would be a betrayal of her 
husband’s secret ; and on the other hand she saw that 
Mrs. Kennedy, though most keen to discover every- 
thing, and no doubt convinced that the maiden was her 
Queen’s child, was bent on not disclosing that fact to 
the foster-mother. 

She asked anxiously whether Mistress Cicely knew 
of her being only an adopted child, and Susan replied 
that they had intended that she never should learn 
that she was of alien birth; but that it had been 
revealed by the old sailor who had brought her on 
board the Mastiff, though no one had heard him save 
young Humfrey and the girl herself, and they had been, 
so far as she knew, perfectly reserved on the subject 

Jean Kennedy then inquired how the name of Cicely 
ha I baen given, and whether the child had been so 
baptized by Protestant rites. 

“ Wot you who the maid may be, madam ? ” Susan 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


170 


[chap. 


took courage to ask ; but the Scotswoman Mmuld not 
be disconcerted, and replied, 

“ How suld I ken without a sight of the tokens ? 
Gin 1 had them, maybe I might give a guess, but there 
was niony a leal Scot sairly bestead, wife and wean 
and all, in her Majesty’s cause that wearie spring.” 

Here Cis stirred in her sleep, and both women were 
at her side in a moment, but she did not wake. 

Jean Kennedy stood gazing at the girl with eager- 
ness that she did not attempt to conceal, studying each 
feature in detail; but Cis showed in her sleep very 
little of her royal lineage, which betrayed itself far 
more in her gait and bearing than in her features. 
Susan could not help demanding of the nurse whether 
she saw any resemblance that could show the maiden’s 
parentage. 

The old lady gave a kind of Scotch guttural sound 
expressive of disappointment, and said, “ I’ll no say 
but I’ve seen the like beetle-broo. But we’ll waken 
the bairn with our clavers. I’ll away the noo. Maister 
Gorion will see her again ere night, but it were ill to 
break her sleep, the puir lassie !” 

Nevertheless, she could not resist bending over and 
kissing the sleeper, so gently that there was no move- 
ment. Then she left the room, and Susan stood with 
clasped hands. 

“ My child ! my child ! Oh, is it coming on thee ? 
Wilt thou be taken from me ! Oh, and to what a fate ! 
A ad to what hands ! They will never never love thee as 
ive liave done ! 0 God, protect her, and be her Father.” 

And Susan knelt by the bed in such a paroxysm of 
grief that her husband, coming in unshod that he might 
not disturb the girl, apprehended that she had become 
seriously worse. 


THE MONOGilAMS. 


171 


XIV.] 

However, his entrance awoke her, and she found 
herself much better, and was inclined to talk, so he sat 
down on a chest by the bed, and related what Diccon 
had told him of the reappearance of the woman with 
the basket of spar trinkets. 

“ Beads and bracelets,” said Cicely. 

“ Ay ?” said he. “ What knowest thou of them ?” 

“ Only that she spake the words so often ; and the 
Queen, just ere that doctor- began his speech, asked of 
me whether she did not sell beads and bracelets.” 

“ ’Tis a password, no doubt, and we must be on our 
guard,” said Eichard, while his wife demanded with 
whom Diccon had seen her speaking. 

"With Gorion,” returned he. "That was what 
made the lad suspect something, knowing that the 
chirurgeon can barely speak three sentences in any 
tongue but his own, and those are in their barbarous 
Scotch. I took the boy with me and inquired here, 
there, and everywhere this afternoon, but could find no 
one who had ever seen or heard of any one like her.” 

“ TeU me, Cis,” exclaimed Susan, with a sudden 
conviction, " was she like in any fashion to Tibbott the 
huckster- woman who brought young Babington into 
trouble three years agone ?” 

"Women’s heads all run on one notion,” said 
Eichard. " Can there be no secret agents save poor 
Cuthbert, whom I believe to be beyond seas ?” 

" Nay, but hear what saith the child ? ’ asked 
Susan. 

"This woman was not nearly so old as Tibbott,” 
said Cis, " nor did she walk with a staff, nor had sh« 
thosv’s grizzled black brows that were wont to frighten 
me.” 

" But was she tall ?” asked Susan. 


172 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

“ Oh yes, mother. She was very tall — she came 
after Diccoir and me with long strides — yet it could 
never have been Tibhott!” 

Susan had reasons for thinking otherwise, hut she 
could not pursue the subject at that time, as she had 
to go down to supper with her husband, and privacy 
was impossible. Even at night, nobody enjoyed exten- 
sive quarters, and but for Cicely’s accident she would 
have slept with Dyot, the tirewoman, who had arrived 
with the baggage, which included a pallet bed for them. 
However, the young lady had been carried to a chamber 
intended for one of Queen Mary’s suite ; and there it 
was decreed that she should remain for the night, the 
mother sleeping with her, while the father and son 
betook themselves to the room previously allotted to 
the family. Only on the excuse of going to take out 
her husband’s gear from the mails was Susan able to 
secure a few words with him, and then by ordering 
out Diccon, Dyot, and the serving-man. Then she 
could succeed in saying, “ Mine husband, all wiU soon 
out — Mistress Kennedy and Master Gorion have seen 
the brands on the child’s shoulders. It is my belief 
that she of the ‘ beads and bracelets ’ bade the chirur- 
geon look for them. Else, why should he have thrust 
himself in for a hurt that women-folk had far better 
have tended ? Now, that kinsman of yours knew that 
poor Cis was none of ours, and gave her a hint of it 
long ago — that is, if Tibbott were he, and not some- 
thing worse.” 

Eichard shook his head. “ Give a woman a hint of 
a seminary priest in disguise, and she would take a 
new-born baby for one. I tell thee I heard that 
Cuthbert was safe in Paris. But, be that as it may, 1 
trust thou hast been discreet. * 


XIV.] THE MONOGRAMS. 173 

“ S< I strove to be,” said Susan. “ Mrs. Kennedy 
questioned me. and I told her.” 

“ Wliat ?” sharply demanded her husband. 

“Nought but truth,” she answered, “save that I 
sh^v'ed no knowledge who the maid really is, nor 
le' i' IT guess that you had read the scroll.” 

That is well. Frank Talbot was scarce within 
his duty when he gave me the key, and it were as 
much as my head were worth to be known to have 
been aware of the matter.” To this Susan could only 
assent, as they were interrupted by the serving-man 
coming to ask directions about the bestowal of the 
goods. 

She was relieved by this short colloquy, but it was 
a sad and wakeful night for her as Cicely slept by her 
side. Her love was too truly motherly not to be 
deeply troubled at the claim of one of differing religion 
and nation, and who had so uncertain and perilous 
a lot in which to place her child. There was also 
the sense that all her dearest, including her eldest 
son, were involved in the web of intrigue with per- 
sons far mightier and more unscrupulous than them- 
selves ; and that, however they might strive to preserve 
their integrity, it would be very hard to avoid suspicion 
and danger. 

In tliis temporary abode, the household of die 
Queen and of the Earl ate together, in the great hall, 
and thus while breaking their fast in the morning J ean 
Kennedy found opportunity to examine Ei chard Talbot 
01 all the circumstances of the wreclc of the Bride oj 
Dunhar, and the finding of the babe. She was much 
more on her guard than the day before, and said that 
she had a shrewd suspicion as to who the babe’s parents 
might be, but that she could not be certain without 


174 UNKNOvVN TO HISTORY. [CHAP, 

seeing the reliquary and the scroll. Richard replied 
that they were at home, but made no offer of sending 
for them. “Nor will I do so,” said he to his wife, 
“ unless I am dealt plainly with, and the lady herself 
asks for them. Then should I have no right to detain 
them.” 

M. Gorion would not allow his patient to leave 
her room that day, ami she had to remain there while 
Susan was in attendance on the Queen, who did not 
appear to her yet to have heard of the discovery, and 
who was entering with zest into the routine of the 
place, where Dr. Jones might he regarded as the 
supreme legislator. 

Each division of the great bath hall was fitted with 
drying and dressing room, arranged commodiously accord- 
ing to the degree of those who were to use them. Royalty, 
of course, enjoyed a monopoly, and after the hot bath, 
which the Queen took immediately after rising, she 
breakfasted in her own apartments, and then came 
forth, according to the regimen of the place, by playing 
at Trowle Madame. A board with arches cut in, just 
big enough to permit the entrance of the balls used in 
playing at howls was placed on the turf at a convenient 
distance from the player. Each arch was numbered, 
from one to thirteen, but the numbers were irregularly 
arranged, and the game consisted in rolling bowls into 
the holes in succession, each player taking a single 
turn, and the winner reaching the highest number 
first, — being, in fact, a sort of lawn bagatelle. Dr. 
Jones recommended it as good to stretch the rheumatic 
joints of his patients, and Queen Mary, an adept at all 
out-of-door games, delighted in it, though she had refused 
an offer to have the lawn arranged for it at Sheffield, 
saying that it -s 3uld only spoil a Buxton delight. She 


THE MONOGRAMS. 


175 


XIV.] 

was still too stiff to play herself, but found infinite 
amusement in teaching the new-comers the game, and 
poor Susan, with her thoughts far away, was scarcely 
30 apt a pupil as befitted a royal mistress, especially 
is she missed Mrs. Kennedy. 

When she came back, she found that the dame had 
been sitting with the patient, and had made herself 
very agreeable to the girl by drawing out from lier all 
she knew of her own story from beginning to end, 
having first shown that she knew of the wreck of the 
Bride of Dunhar. 

“ And, mother,” said Cis, “ she says she is nearly 
certain that she knows who my true parents were, and 
that she could be certain if she saw the swaddling 
clothes and tokens you had with me. Have you, 
mother ? I never knew of them.” 

“Yes, child, I have. We did not wish to trouble 
and perturb your mind, little one, while you were con- 
tent to be our daughter.” 

“Ah, mother, I would fain be yours and father’s 
still. They must not take me from you. But sup- 
pose I was some great and noble lord’s daughter, and 
had a great inheritance and lordship to give Humfrey !” 

“ Alas, child ! Scottish inheritances are wont to 
bring more strife than wealth.” 

Nevertheless, Cis went on supposing and building 
castles that were pain and grief to her foreboding 
auditor. That evening, ho^vever, Kichard called his 
wife. It was late, but the northern sunset was only 
just over, and Susan could wander out with him on 
the greensward in front of the Earl’s house. 

“ So this is the tale we are to be put off with,” he 
said, “from the Queen herself, ay, herself, and told 
with such an air of truth that it would almost make 


176 UNKNOWN TO lIISTOKy. [CHAP. 

me discreclit the scroll. She told me with one of hei 
sweetest smiles how a favourite kiuswoman of hers 
wedded in secret with a faithful follower of hers, of the 
clan Hepburn. Oh, I assure you it might have been 
a ballad sung by a harper for its sadness. Well, this 
fellow ventured too far in her service, and had to flee 
to France to become an archer of the guard, while the 
wife remained and died at Lochleven Castle, having 
given birth to our Cis, whom the Queen in due time 
despatched to her father, he being minded to have her 
bred up in a French nunnery, sending her to Dum- 
barton to be there embarked in the Bride of Dunlar.^* 

"And the father?” 

" Oh, forsooth, the father ! It cost her as little to 
dispose of him as of the mother. He was killed in 
some brawl with the Huguenots ; so that the poor child 
is altogetlier an orphan, beholden to our care, for which 
she thanked me with tears in her eyes, that were more 
true than mayhap the poor woman could help.” 

" Poor lady,” said Susan. " Yet can it not be sooth 
indeed ?” 

“Hay, dame, that may not be. The cipher is not 
one that would be used in simply sending a letter to 
the father.” 

“ Might not the occasion have been used for cor- 
responding in secret with French friends?” 

“ I tell thee, wife, if I read one word of. that letter, 
I read that the child was her own, and confided to the 
Abbess of Soissons ! I will read it to thee once more 
ere I yield it up, that is if I ever do. Wherefore 
cannot the woman speak truth to me ? I would be 
true and faithful were I trusted, but to be thus put 
off with lies makes a man ready at once to ride ofi 
with the whole to the Queen in council.” 


XIV.] 


THE MONOGRAMS. 


177 


“ Think, but think, dear sir,” pleaded Susan, “ how 
the poor lady is pressed, and how much she has to 
fear on all sides.” 

“Ay, because lies have been meat and drink to 
her, till she cannot speak a soothfast word nor know 
an honest man when she sees him.” 

“ What would she have ?” 

“That Cis should remain with us as before, and 
still pass for our daughter, till such time as these 
negotiations are over, and she recover her kingdom. 
That is — so far as I see — like not to be till latter 
Lammas — but meantime what sayest thou, Susan ? 
Ah ! I knew, anything to keep the child with thee ! 
Well, be it so — though if I had known the web we 
were to be wound into, I’d have sailed for the Indies 
with Humfrey long ago 1” 


UNKNOWN TO lilSTOKY. 


[CllAP. 


I7d 


CHAPTEE XV. 

MOTHER AND CHILD. 

Cicely was well enough the next day to leave her 
room and come out on the summer’s evening to enjoy 
the novel spectacle of Trowle Madame, in which she 
burned to participate, so soon as her shoulder should 
be well. It was with a foreboding heart that her 
adopted mother fell with her into the rear of the suite 
who were attending Queen Mary, as she went down- 
stairs to walk on the lawn, and sit under a canopy 
whence she could watch either that game, or the 
shooting at the butts which was being carried on a 
little farther off. 

“ So, our bonnie maiden,” said Mary, brightening as 
she caught sight of the young girl, “ thou art come 
forth once more to rejoice mine eyes, a sight for sair 
een, as they say in Scotland,” and she kissed the fresh 
cheeks with a tenderness that gave Susan a strange 
pang. Then she asked kindly after the hurt, and bade 
Cis sit at her feet, while she watched a match in 
archery between some of the younger attendants, now 
and then laying a caressing hand upon the slender 
figure. 

“ Little one,” she said, “ I would fain have thee to 
share my piUow. I have had no young bed-fellow 


XV.] MOTHER AND CHILD. 179 

since Bess Pierrepoint left us. Wilt thou stoop to 
come and cheer the poor rid caged bird V’ 

“ Oh, madam, how gladly will I do so if I may !” 
cried Cicely, delighted. 

“We will take good care of her. Mistress Talbot,” 
said Mary, “ and deliver her up to you whole and sain 
in the morning,” and there was a quivering playfulness 
in her voice. 

“ Your Grace is the mistress,” answered Susan, with 
a sadness not quite controlled. 

“ Ah ! you mock me, madam. Would that I were !” 
returned the Queen. “ It is my Lord’s consent that 
we must ask. How say you, my Lord, may I have 
this maiden for my warder at night ?” 

Lord Shrewsbmy was far from seeing any objection, 
and the promise was given that Cis should repair to 
the Queen’s chamber for at least that night. She was 
full of excitement at the prospect. 

“ Why look you so sadly at me, sweet mother ?” she 
cried, as Susan made ready her hair, and assisted her in 
all the arrangements for which her shoulder was still 
too stiff ; “ you do not fear that they will hurt my arm ?” 

“ No, truly, my child. They have tender and skil- 
ful hands.” 

“ May be they will tell me the story of my parents,” 
said Cis ; “ but you need never doubt me, mother 
Though I were to prove to be ever so great a lady, no 
one could ever be mine own mother like you !” 

“ Scarcely in love, my child,” said Susan, as she 
wrapped the little figure in a loose gown, and gave her 
such a kiss as parents seldom permitted themselves, in 
the fear of “ cockering” their children, which was con- 
sidered to be a most reprehensible practice. Nor could 
she refrain from closely pressiug Cicely’s hand as they 


180 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAP, 

passed through the corridor to the Queen’s apartments, 
gave the word to the two yeomen who were on guard 
for the night at the head of the stairs, and tapped at 
the outmost door of the royal suite of rooms. It was 
opened by a French valet ; but Mrs. Kennedy in- 
stantly advanced, took the maiden by the hand, and 
with a significant smile said : “ Gramercy, madam, we 
v\iU take unco gude tent of the lassie. A fair gude 
nicht to ye.” And Mrs. Talbot felt, as she put the little 
hand into that of the nurse, and saw the door shut on 
them, as if she had virtually given up her daughter, 
and, oh ! was it for her good ? 

Cis was led into the bedchamber, bright with 
wax tapers, though the sky was not yet dark. She 
heard a sound as of closing and locking double 
doors, while some one drew back a crimson, gold-edged 
velvet curtain, which she had seen several times, and 
which it was whispered concealed the shrine where 
Queen Mary performed her devotions. She had just 
risen from before it, at the sound of Cis’s entrance, 
and two of her ladies, Mary Seaton and Marie de 
Courcelles, seemed to have been kneeling with her. 
She was made ready for bed, with a dark-blue velvet 
gown corded round her, and her hair, now very gray, 
braided beneath a little round cap, but a square of soft 
cambric drapery had been thrown over her head, so as 
to form a perfectly gTaceful veil, and shelter the features 
that were aging. Indeed, when Queen Mary wore the 
exquisite smile that now lit up her face as she held out 
her arms, no one ever paused to think what those 
lineaments really were. She held out her arms as 
Cis advanced bashfully, and said : “ Welcome, my 
sweet bed-fellow, my little Scot — one more loyal 8ul> 
ject come to me in my bondage.” 


MOTHER AND CHILD. 


1«1 


XV.] 

Cis’s impulse was to put a knee to the ground and kiss 
the hands that received her “ Thou art our patient,” 
continued Mary. “ I will see thee in bed ere I settle 
myself there.” The bed v as a tall, large, carved erec- 
tion, with sweeping green and silver curtains, and a 
huge bank of lace-bordered pillows. A flight of low 
steps facilitated the ascent ; and Cis, passive in this 
new scene, was made to throw off her dressing-gown 
and climb up. 

And now,” said the Queen, “ let me see the poor 
little shoulder that hath suffered so much.” 

“ My arm is still bound, madam,” said Cis. But 
she was not listened to ; and Mrs. Kennedy, much to 
her discomfiture, turned back her under-garment. The 
marks were, in fact, so placed as to be entirely out of 
her own view, and Mrs. Susan had kept them from the 
knowledge or remark of any one. They were also high 
enough up to be quite clear from the bandages, and 
thus she was amazed to hear the exclamation, “ There ! 
sooth enough.” 

“ Monsieur Gorion could swear to them instantly.” 

“ What is it ? Oh, what is it, madam ? ” cried Cis, 
affrighted ; “ is there anything on my back ? No 
plague spot, I hope ;” and her eyes grew round with 
terror. 

The Queen laughed. “No plague spot, sweet one, 
save, perhaps, in the eyes of you Protestants, but to me 
they are a gladsome sight — a token I never hoped 
to see.” 

And the bewildered girl felt a pair of soft lips kiss 
each mark in turn, and then the covering was quickly 
and caressingly restored, and Mary added, “ Lie down, 
my child, and now to bed, to bed, my maids. Put out 
the lights.” Then, making the sign of the cross, as 


182 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOliY. 


[chap. 


Cis had seen poor Antony Babington do, the Queen, 
just as all the lights save one were extinguished, was 
divested of her wrapper and veil, and took her place 
l)eside Cis on the pillows. The two Maries left the 
chamber, and Jean Kennedy disposed herself on a pallet 
at the foot of the bed. 

“ And so,” said the Queen, in a low voice, tender, 
but with a sort of banter, “ she thought she had the 
plague spot on her little white shoulders. Didst thou 
really not know what marks thou bearest, little one ?” 

“ No, madam,” said Cis. “ Is it what I have felt 
with my fingers ? ” 

“ Listen, child,” said Mary. “ Art thou at thine 
ease ; thy poor shoulder resting well ? There, then, 
give me thine hand, and I will tell thee a tale. There 
was a lonely castle in a lake, grim, cold, and northerly ; 
and thither there was brought by angry men a captive 
woman. They had dealt with her strangely and sub- 
tilly ; they had laid on her the guilt of the crimes them- 
selves had wrought; and when she clung to the one 
man whom at least she thought honest, they had forced 
and driven her into wedding him, only that all the 
world might cry out upon her, forsake her, and deliver 
her up into those cruel hands.” 

There was something irresistibly pathetic in Mary’s 
voice, and the maiden lay gazing at her with swimming 
eyes. 

“ Thou dost pity that poor lady, sweet one ? There 
was little pity for her then ! She had looked her last 
on her lad -bairn; ay, and they had said she had 
striven to poison him, and they were breeding him up 
to loathe the very name of his mother ; yea, and to hate 
and persecute the Church of his father and his mother 
both. And so it was, that the lady vowed that il 


MOTHEK AND CHILD. 


183 


XV.] 

another babe was granted to her, spning of that last 
strange miserable wedlock, these foes of hers should 
have no part in it, nor knowledge of its very existence, 
but that it should be bred up beyond their ken — safe 
out of their reach. Ah ! child ; good Nurse Kennedy 
can best tell thee how the jealous eyes and ears were 
disconcerted, and in secrecy and sorrow that birth took 
place.” 

Cis’s heart was beating too fast for speech, but 
there was a tight close pressure of the hand that Mary 
had placed within hers. 

“ The poor mother,” went on the Queen in a low 
trembling voice, “ durst have scarce one hour’s joy of her 
first and only daughter, ere the trusty Gorion took the 
little one from her, to be nursed in a hut on the other 
side of the lake. There,” continued Mary, forgetting 
the third person, “ I hoped to have joined her, so soon 
as 1 was afoot again. The faithful lavender lent me 
her garments, and I was already in the boat, but the 
men-at-arms were rude and would have pulled down 
my muffler ; I raised my hand to protect myself, and 
it was all too white. They had not let me stain it, 
because the dye would not befit a washerwoman. So 
there was I dragged back to ward again, and all our 
plans overthrown. And it seemed safer and meeter to 
put my little one out of reach of all my foes, even if 
it were far away from her mother’s aching heart. Not 
one more embrace could I be granted, but my good 
chaplain Eoss — whom the saints rest — baptized her in 
secret, and Gorion had set two marks on the soft flesh, 
which he said could never be blotted out in after 
years, and then her father’s clanswoman, Alison Hep- 
burn, undertook to carry her to France, with a letter 
of mine bound up in her swathing clothes, committing 


184 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [oitAP. 

her to the charge of my good aunt, the Abbess of 
Soissons, in utter secrecy, until better days should 
come. Alas ! I thought them not so far off. I 
deemed that were I once beyoud the clutches of 
Morton, Euthven, and the rest, the loyal would rally 
once more round my standard, and my crown wculd 
be mine own, mine enemies and those of my Church 
beneath my feet. Little did I guess that my escape 
would only be to see them slain and routed, and that 
when I threw myself on the hospitality of my cousin, 
her tender mercies would prove such as I have found 
them. ‘ Libera me, Domine, libera me' " 

Cis began dimly to understand, but she was still 
too much awed to make any demonstration, save a 
convulsive pressure of the Queen’s hand, and the 
murmuring of the Latin prayer distressed her. 

Presently Mary resumed. “Long, long did I hope 
my little one was safely sheltered from all my troubles 
in the dear old cloisters of Soissons, and that it was 
caution in my good aunt the abbess that prevented my 
hearing of her ; but through my faithful servants, my 
Lord Flemyng, who had been charged to speed her from 
Dumbarton, at length let me know that the ship in which 
she sailed, the Bride of Dunbar, had been never heard 
of more, and was thought to have been cast away in a 
tempest that raged two days after she quitted Dum- 
barton. And I — I shed some tears, but I could well 
believe that the innocent babe had been safely wel- 
comed among the saints, and I could not grieve that 
she was, as I thought, spared from the doom that 
rests upon the race of Stewart. Till one week back, I 
gave thanks for that child of sorrow as cradled in 
Paradise.” 

Then followed a pause, and then Cis said in a lo-w 


MOTHER AND CHILD. 


XV.] 


185 


trembling voice, “And it was from the wreck of the 
Bride of iJanhar that I was taken ? ” 

“ Thou hast said it, child ! My bairn, my bonnie 
bairn!” and the girl was absorbed in a passionate 
embrace and strained convulsively to a bosom which 
heaved with tha sobs of tempestuous emotion, and the 
caresses were redoubled upon her again and again with 
increasing fervour that almost frightened her. 

“ Speak to me ! Speak to me I Let me hear my 
child’s voice.” 

Oh, madam ” 

“ Call me mother 1 Never have I heard that sound 
from my child’s lips. I have borne two children, two 
living children, only to be stripped of both. Speak, 
cliild — let me hear thee.” 

Cis contrived to say “Mother, my mother,” but 
scarcely with effusion. It was all so strange, and she 
coidd not help feeling as if Susan were the mother 
she knew and was at ease with. All this was much 
too like a dream, from which she longed to awake. 
And there was Mrs. Kennedy too, rising up and 
crying quite indignantly — “ Mother indeed I Is that all 
thou hast to say, as though it were a task under the 
rod, when thou art owned for her own bairn by the 
fairest and most ill-used queen in Christendom ? Out 
on thee ! Have the Southron loons chilled thine heart 
and made thee no leal to thine ain mother that hath 
hungered for thee ?” 

The angry tones, and her sense of her own short- 
comings, could only make Cis burst into tears. 

“ Hush, hush, nurse ! thou shalt not chide my new- 
found bairn. She will learn to ken us betf,er in 
time if they will leave her with us,” said Mary. 
“ There, there ; greet not so sair, mine ain. I ask 


186 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

thee not to share my sorrows and my woes. That 
Heaven forefend. I ask thee but to come from time 
to time and cheer my nights, and lie on my weary 
bosom to still its ache and yearning, and let me feel 
that I have indeed a child.” 

“ Oh, mother, mother !” Cis cried again in a stifled 
voice, as one who could not utter her feelings, but not 
in the cold dry tone that had called forth Mrs. 
Kennedy’s wrath. “Pardon me, I know not — I 
cannot say what I would. But oh ! I would do any- 
thing for — for your Grace.” 

“ All that I would ask of thee is to hold thy peace 
and keep our counsel. Be Cicely Talbot by day as 
ever. Only at night be mine — my child, my Bride, 
for so wast thou named after our Scottish patroness. 
It was a relic of her sandals that was hung about thy 
neck, and her ship in which thou didst sail ; and lo, she 
heard and guarded thee, and not merely saved thee from 
death, but provided thee a happy joyous home and 
well -nurtured childhood. We must render her our 
thanks, my child. Bcata Brigitta, ora pro nobis'' 

“ It was the good God Almighty who saved me, 
madam,” said Cis bluntly. 

“ Alack ! I forgot that yonder good lady could 
not fail to rear thee in the outer darkness of her 
heresy ; but thou wilt come back to us, my ain wee 
thing ! Heaven forbid that I should deny Whose Hand 
it was that saved thee, but it was at the blessed 
Bride’s intercession. No doubt she reserved for me, 
who had turned to her in my distress, this precious 
consolation ! But I will not vex thy little heart with 
debate this first night. To be mother and child is 
enough for us. What art thou pondering?” 

“ Only, madam, who was it that told your Grace 
that I was a stranger ?” 


XV.] 


MOTHER AND CHILD. 


187 


“ The marks, bairnie, the marks,” said Maiy, 
“ They told their own tale to good Nurse Jeanie ; ay, 
and to Gorion, whom we blamed lor his cruelty in 
branding my poor little lamniie.” 

“ Ah ! but,” said Cicely, “ did not yonder woman 
with the beads and bracelets bid him look ? ” 

If it had been lighter. Cicely would have seen that 
the Queen was not pleased at the inquiry, but she 
only heard the answer from Jean’s bed, “ Hout no, I 
wad she knew nought of thae brands. How should 
she ?” 

“ Nay,” said Cicely, " she — no, it was Tibhott the 
huckster-woman told me long ago that I was not what 
I seemed, and that I came from the north — I cannot 
understand ! Were they the same ?” 

“ The bairn kens too much,” said Jean. “ Dinns 
ye deave her Grace with your speirings, my lammie 
Ye’ll have to learn to keep a quiet sough, and to see 
mickle ye canna understand here.” 

“ Silence her not, good nurse,” said the Queen, “ it 
imports us to know this matter. What saidst thou of 
Tibbott ?” 

“ She was the woman who got Antony Babington 
into trouble,” exjJained Cicely. “ I deemed her a 
witch, for she would hint strange things concerning me, 
but my father always belreved she was a kinsman of 
his, who w’as concerned in the Eising of the North, 
and who, he said, had seen me brought in to Hull 
from the wreck.” 

“Ay?” said the Queen, as a sign to her to con- 
tinue. 

“ And meseemed,” added Cicely timidly, “ that the 
strange woman at Tides well who talked of beads and 
bracelets minded me of Tibbott, though she was 


188 UNIvNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAJ-. 

younger, and had not her grizzled brows ; but father 
says that cannot be, for Master Cuthbert Langston is 
beyond seas at l*aris.” 

“ Soh ! that is well,” returned Mary, in a tone of 
relief. “ See, child. That Langston of whom you 
speak was a true friend of mine. He has done much 
for me under many disguises, and at the time of thy 
birth he lived as a merchant at Hull, trading with 
Scotland. Thus it may have become known to him 
that the babe he had seen rescued from the wreck was 
one who had been embarked at Dumbarton. But no 
more doth he know. The secret of thy birth, my poor 
bairn, was entrusted to none save a few of those about 
me, and all of those who are still living thou hast 
already seen. Lord Flemyng, who put thee on board, 
believed thee the child of James Hepburn of Lillie- 
burn, the archer, and of my poor Mary Stewart, a 
kinswoman of mine ain ; and it was in that belief 
doubtless that he, or Tibbott, as thou caU’st him, would 
have spoken with thee.” 

“ But the woman at Tideswell,” said Cis, who was 
getting bewildered — “ Diccon said that she spake to 
IMaster Gorion.” 

“ That did she, and pointed thee out to him. It is 
true. She is another faithful friend of mine, and no 
doubt she had the secret from him. But no more ques- 
tions, child. Enough that we sleep in each other’s arms.” 

It w’as a strange night. Cis was more conscious of 
wonder, excitement, and a certain exultation, than of 
actual affection. She had not been bred up so as to 
hunger and crave for love. Indeed she had been 
treated with more tenderness and indulgence than was 
usual with people’s own daughters, and her adopted 
parents had absorbed her undoubting love and respect 


MOTHER AND CHILD. 


189 


XV.] 

Queen Mary’s fervent caresses were at least as em- 
barrassing as they were gratifying, because she did not 
know what response to make, and the novelty and 
wonder of the situation were absolutely distressing. 

They would have been more so but for the Queen’s 
tact She soon saw that she was overwhelming the 
girl, and that time must be given for her to become 
accustomed to the idea. So, saying tenderly something 
about rest, she lay quietly, leaving Cis, as she suj)posed, 
to sleep. This, however, was impossible to the girl, 
except in snatches which made her have to prove to 
herself again and again that it was not all a dream. 
The last of these wakenings was by daylight, as full as 
the heavy curtains would admit, and she looked up into 
a face that was watching her with such tender wistful- 
ness that it drew from her perforce the word “ Mother.” 

“ Ah ! that is the tone with the true ring in it. I 
thank thee and I bless thee, my bairn,” said Mary, 
making over her the sign of the cross, at which the 
maiden winced as at an incantation. Then she added, 
“ My little maid, we must be up and stirring. Mind, 
no word of all this. Thou art Cicely Talbot by day, 
as ever, and only my child, my Bride, mine ain wee 
thing, my princess by night. Canst keep counsel ? ” 

" Surely, madam,” said Cis, “ I have known for 
five years that I was a foundling on the wreck, and 
I never uttered a word.” 

Mary smiled. “ This is either a very simple child 
or a very canny one,” she said to Jean Kennedy. 
“ Either she sees no boast in being of royal blood, or 
she deems that to have the mother she has found is 
worse than the being the nameless foundling.” 

Oh ! madam, mother, not so ! I meant but that 
1 had held my tongue when I had something to tell !” 


190 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

“ Let tliy secrecy stand thee in good stead, child,” 
said the Queen. “ Eemember that did the bruit once 
get abroad, thou wouldest assuredly be torn from 
me, to be mewed up where the English Queen could 
hinder thee from ever wedding living man. Ay, and 
it might bring the head of thy foster- father to the 
block, if he were thought to have concealed the matter. 
I fear me thou art too young for such a weighty secret.” 

“ I am seventeen years old, madam,” returned Cis, 
with dignity ; “ I have kept the other secret since I 
was twelve.” 

“ Then thou wilt, I trust, have the wisdom not to 
take the princess on thee, nor to give any suspicion that 
we are more to one another than the caged bird and 
the bright linnet that comes to sing on the bars of 
her cage. Only, child, thou must get from Master 
Talbot these tokens that I hear of. Hast seen them ? ” 

“ Never, madam ; indeed I knew not of them.” 

“ I need them not to know thee for mine own, but 
it is not well that they should be in stranger hands. 
Thou canst say — But hush, we must be mum for the 
present.” 

For it became necessary to admit the Queen’s 
morning draught of spiced millc, borne in by one of 
her suite who had to remain uninitiated ; and from 
that moment no more confidences could be exchanged, 
until the time that Cis had to leave the Queen’s 
chamber to join the rest of the household in the daily 
prayers offered in the chapel. Her dress and hair had, 
according to promise, been carefully attended to, but 
she was only finished and completed just in time to 
join her adopted parents on the way down the stairs. 
She knelt in the hall for tlieir blessing — an action as 
regular and as mechanical as the morning kiss and 


MOTHEll AND CHILD. 


191 


XV.] 

greeting now are between parent and child ; but there 
was something in her face that made Susan say to 
lierself, “ She knows all.” 

They could not speak to one another till not only 
matins but breakfast were ended, and then — after the 
somewhat solid meal — the ladies had to put on their 
out-of-door gear to attend Queen Mary in her daily 
exercise. The dress was not much, high summer as it 
was, only a loose veil over the stiff cap, and a fan in 
the gloved hand to act as parasol. However the 
retirement gave Cicely an interval in which to say, 
“ 0 mother, she has told me,” and as Susan sat holding 
out her arms, the adopted child threw herself on her 
knees, hiding her face on that bosom where she had 
found comfort all her life, and where, her emotion at 
last finding full outlet, she sobbed without knoM'ing 
why for some moments, till she started nervously at 
the entrance of Eichard, saying, “ The Queen is asking 
for you both. But how now ? Is all told ?” 

Ay,” whispered his wife. 

“ So ! And why these tears ? Tell me, my maid, 
was not she good to thee ? Doth she seek to take thee 
into her own keeping ?” 

“ Oh no, sir, no,” said Cis, still kneeling against the 
motherly knee and struggling with her sobs. “No one 
is to guess. I am to be Cicely Talbot all the same, 
till better days come to her.” 

“ The safer and the happier for thee, child. Here 
are two honest hearts that will not cast thee off, even 
if, as I suspect, yonder lady would fain be quit of thee/’ 

“ Oh no !” burst from Cicely, then, shocked at 
having committed the offence of interrupting him, she 
added, “ Dear sir, I crave your pardon, but, indeed, she 
18 all fondness and love.” 


L92 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CHAI 

“ Then what means this passion ?” he asked, looking 
from one to the other. 

“ It means only that tlie child’s senses and spirits 
are overcome,” said Susan, “ and that she scarce knows 
how to take this discovery. Is it not so, sweetheart ?” 

“ Oh, sweet mother, yes in sooth. You will ever 
he mother to me indeed !” 

“ Well said, little maid !” said Eichard. “ Thoii 
mightest search the world over and never hap upon 
such another.” 

“ But she oweth duty to the true mother,” said 
Susan, with her hand on the girl’s neck. 

“ We wot well of that,” answered her husband, “ and 
I trow the first is to be secret.” 

“ Yea, sir,” said Cis, recovering herself, “ none save 
the very few who tended her, the Queen at Lochleven, 
know who I verily am. Such as were aware of the 
babe being put on board ship at Dumbarton, thought 
me the daughter of a Scottish archer, a Hepburn, and 
she, the Queen my mother, would have me pass as 
such to those who needs must know I am not myself.” 

“ Trust her for making a double web when a single 
one would do,” muttered Eichard, but so that, the girl 
could not hear. 

“ There is no need for any to know at present,” said 
Susan hastily, moved perhaps by the same dislike to 
deception ; “ but ah, there’s that fortune-telling woman.” 

Cis, proud of her secret information, here explained 
that Tibbott was indeed Cuthbert Langston, but not 
the person whose password was ‘'beads and bracelets,” 
and that both alike could know no more than the story 
of the Scottish archei and his young wife ; but they 
M'ere here interrupted by the appearance of Diccon 
who had been sent by m}'- Lord himself to hasten them, 


MOTHER AND CHILD. 


193 


XV. J 

at the instance of the Queen. Master Kichard sent the 
boy on with his mother, saying he would wait and 
bring Cis, as she had still to compose her hair and coif, 
which had become somewhat disordered. 

“ My maiden,” he said, gravely, “ I have somewhat 
to say unto thee. Thou art in a stranger case than 
any woman of thy years between the four seas ; nay, 
it may be in Christendom. It is woeful hard for thee 
not to be a traitor through mere lapse of tongue to 
thine own mother, or else to thy Queen. So I tell 
thee this once for all. See as little, hear as little, and, 
above all, say as little as thou canst.” 

“ Not to mother ?” asked Cis. 

. “No, not to her, above all not to me ; and, my girl, 
pray God daily to keep thee true and loyal, and guard 
thee and the rest of us from snares. Now have with 
thee. We may tarry no longer !” 

All went as usual for the rest of the day, so that 
the last night was like a dream, until it became plain 
that Cicely was again to share the royal apartment. 

“ Ah, I have thirsted for this hour !” said Mary, 
holding out her arms and drawing her daughter to her 
bosom. “ Thou art a canny lassie, mine ain wee thing. 
None could have guessed from thy bearing that there 
was aught betwixt us.” 

“ In sooth, madam,” said the girl, “ it seems that I 
am two maidens in one — Cis Talbot by day, and Bride 
of Scotland by night.” 

“ That is well ! Be all Ci3 Talbot by day. When 
there is need to dissemble, believe in thine own feign- 
ing. ’Tis for want of that art that tliese clumsy 
Southrons make themselves but a laughing-stock when- 
ever they have a secret.” 

Cis did not understand the maxim, and submitted 
0 


194 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap 

in silence to some caresses before she said, “ My fathei 
will give your Grace the tokens when we return." 

“ Thy father, child ?” 

“ I crave your pardon, madam, it comes too trip- 
pingly to my tongue thus to term Master Talbot.” 

“ So much the better. Thy tongue must not lose 
the trick. 1 did but feel a moment’s fear lest thou 
hadst not been guarded enough with yonder sailor 
man, and had let him infer over much,” 

“ 0, surely, madam, you never meant me to with- 
hold the truth from father and mother,” cried Cis, in 
astonishment and dismay. 

“ Tush ! silly maid !” said the Queen, really angered. 
“Father and mother, forsooth ! Now shall we have ‘a- 
fresh coil ! I should have known better than to have 
trusted thy word.” 

“ Never would I have given my word to deceive 
them,” cried Cis, hotly, 

“ Lassie !” exclaimed Jean Kennedy, “ye forget to 
whom ye speak.” 

“ Nay,” said Mary, recovering herself, or rather see- 
ing how best to punish, “ ’tis the poor bairn who will 
be the sufferer. Our state cannot be worse than it is 
already, save that I shall lose her presence, but it 
pities me to think of her.” 

“ The secret is safe with them,” repeated Cis. “ 0 
ma,dam, none are to be trusted like them.” 

“ Tell me not,” said the Queen. “ The sailor s 
blundering loyalty will not suffer him to hold his 
tongue. I would lay my two lost crowns that he is 
ilown on his honest knees before my Lord craving par^ 
don for having unwittingly fostered one of the viper 
brood. Then, via ! off goes a post — boots and spurs are 
no doubt already on — and by and by comes Knollyg, 


MOTIIEK AND CHILD. 


19.1 


XV.] 

or Carey, or Walsingham, to bear off the perilous 
maiden to walk in Queen Bess’s train, and have hex 
ears boxed when her Majesty is out of humour, ox 
when she gets weaxy of dressing St. Katherine’s hair, 
and weds the man of her choice, she begins to taste 
of prison walls, and is a captive for the rest of hei 
days.” 

Cis was reduced to tears, and assurances that if 
the Queen would only broach the subject to Master 
Eichard, she would perceive that he regarded as sacred, 
secrets that were not his own ; and to show that he 
meant no betrayal, she repeated his advice as to seeing, 
hearing, and saying as little as possible. 

“Wholesome counsel!” said Mary. “Cheer thee, 
lassie mine, I will credit whatever thou wilt of this 
foster-father of thine until I see it disproved ; and for 
the good lady his wife, she hath more inward, if less 
outward, grace than any dame of the mastiff brood 
which guards our prison court ! I should have 
warned thee that they were not excepted from those 
who may deem thee my poor Mary’s child.” 

Cicely did not bethink herself that, in point of fact, 
she had not communicated her royal birth to her 
adopted parents, but that it had been assumed Vtween 
them, as, indeed, they had not mentioned tlieir previous 
knowledge. Mary presently proceeded — “ After all, 
we may not have to lay too heavy a burden on their 
discretion. Better days are coming. One day shall 
our faithful lieges open the way to freedom and royalty, 
and thou shalt have whatever boon thou wouldst ask, 
even were it pardon for my Lady Shrewsbury.” 

“ There is one question I would fain ask. Madam 
mother : Doth my real father yet live ? The Earl 
of ” 


196 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CILIP. 

Jeau Kennedy made a sound of indignant w'arning 
and consternation, cutting her short in dismay ; hut 
the Queen gripped her hand tightly for some moments, 
and then said : “ ’Tis not a thing to speir of me, child, 
of me, the most woefully deceived and forlorn of ladies. 
Never have I seen nor heard from him since the part- 
ing at Carbery Hill, when he left 'o bear the 
brunt ! Folk say that he took ship for the north. 
Believe him dead, child. So were it best for us both ; 
but never name him to me more.” 

Jean Kennedy knew, though the girl did not, what 
these words conveyed. If Bothwell no longer lived, 
there would be no need to declare the marriage null 
and void, and thus sacrifice his daughter’s position 
but supposing him to be in existence, Mary had 
already shown herself resolved to cancel the very 
irregular bonds which had united them, — a most 
easy matter for a member of her Church, since they 
had been married by a Eeformed minister, and Both- 
well had a living wife at the time. Of all this Cicely 
was absolutely ignorant, and was soon eagerly listening 
as the Queen spoke of her hopes of speedy deliverance. 
“My son, my Jamie, is working for me!” she said. 
“ Nay, dost not ken what is in view for me ?” 

“No, madam, my good father. Master Eichard, I 
mean, never tells aught that he hears in my Lord’s 
closet.” 

“ That is to assure me of his discretion, I trow ’ 
But this is no secret 1 No treason against our well- 
beloved cousin Bess 1 Oh no I But thy brother, mine 
ain lad -bairn, hath come to years of manhood, and 
hath shaken himself free of the fetters of Knox and 
Morton and Buchanan, and all their clamjamfrie. 
The Stewart lion hath been too strong for them. The 


MOTHER AND CHILD. 


197 


XV.] 

puir laddie hath true men about him. at last, — the 
Master of Gray, as they call him, and Esm^ Stewart of 
Aubigny, a Scot polished as the French know how 
to brighten Scottish steel. Nor will the lad bide 
that his mother should pine longer in durance. He 
yearns for her, and hath writ to her and to Elizabeth 
offering her a share in his throne. Poor laddie, what 
would be outrecmdance in another is but duteousness 
in him. What will he say when we bring him a 
sister as well as a mother ? They tell me that he is 
an unco scholar, but uncouth in his speech and man- 
ners, and how should it be otherwise with no woman 
near him save my old Lady Mar? We shall have to 
take him in hand to teach him fair courtesy.” 

" Sure he will be an old pupU !” said Cis, “ if he be 
more than two years my elder.” 

“Never fear, if we can find a winsome young bride 
for him, trust mother, wife, and sister for moulding 
him to kingly bearing. We will make our home in 
Stirling or Linlithgow, we two, and leave Holyrood to 
him. I have seen too much there ever to thole the 
sight of those chambers, far less of the High Street of 
Edinburgh ; but Stirling, bonnie Stirling, ay, I would 
fain ride a hawking there once more. Methinks a 
Highland breeze would put life and youth into me 
again. There’s a little chamber opening into mine, 
where I will bestow thee, my Lady Bride of Scot- 
land, for so long as I may keep thee. Ah ! it will not 
be for long. They will be seeking thee, my brave 
courtly faithful kindred of Lorraine, and Scottish 
nobles and English lords will vie for this little hand 
of thine, where courses the royal blood of both realms.” 

“ So please you, madam, my mother ” 

“ Eh ? What is it ? Who is it ? I deemed that 


198 


UNKNOWN TO KISTOliY. 


[chap 

yonder honourable dame had kept thee from all the 
frolics and foibles of tlie poor old profession. Fear 
not to tell me, little one Remember thine own 
mother hath a heart for such matters. I guess 
already. G'etait un heau garqon, ce pauvre Antoine^ 

“ Oh no, madam,” exclaimed Cicely. “ When the 
sailor Goatley disclosed that I was no child of my 
father’s, of Master Richard I mea n, and was a nameless 
creature belonging to no one, Humfrey Talbot stood 
forth and pledged himself to wed me so soon as we 
were old enough.” 

“And what said the squire and dame?” 

“ That I should then be indeed their daughter.” 

“And hath the contract gone no farther ?” 

“ No, madam. He hath been to the North with 
Captain Frobisher, and since that to the AVestern Main, 
and we look for his return even now.” 

“ How long is it since this pledge, as thou callest 
it, was given ?” 

“ Five years next Lammas tide, madam.” 

“ Was it by ring or token ?” 

“No, madam. Our mother said we were too young, 
but Humfrey meant it w'itli all his heart.” 

“ Humfrey ! That was the urchin who must 
needs traverse the correspondence through the seeming 
Tibbott, and so got Antony removed from about us. 
A stout lubberly Yorkshire lad, fed on beef and pud- 
ding, a true Talbot, a mere English bull-dog who will 
have lost all the little breeding he had, while commit- 
ting spulzie and piracy at sea on his Catholic Majesty’s 
ships Bah, mon enfant, I am glad of it. Had he 
been t graceful young courtly page like the pool 
Antony, it might have been a little difficult, but a 
great English carle likj that, whom thou hast not seen 


MurUEIi AND CHILD. 


199 


XV.] 

for five years — ” She made a gesture with her grace- 
ful hands as if casting away a piece of thistledown. 

“ Humfrey is my very good — my very good brother 
madam,” cried Cicely, casting about for words to 
defend him, and not seizing the most appropriate. 

“ Brother, quotha ? Yea, and as good brother he shall 
be to thee, and welcome, so long as thou art Cis Talbot 
by day — but no more, child. Princesses mate not with 
Yorkshire esquires. When the Lady Bride takes her 
place in the halls of her forefathers, she will be the 
property of Scotland, and her hand will be sought by 
princes. Ah, lassie ! let it not grieve thee. One thing 
thy mother can tell thee from her own experience. 
There is more bliss in mating with our equals, l3y the 
choice of others, than in following our own wild will. 
Thou gazest at me in wonder, but verily my happy 
days were with my gentle young king — and so will 
thine be, I pray the saints happier and more endur- 
in" than ever were mine. Nothing has ever lasted 
with me but captivity, 0 libera me.” 

And in the murmured repetition the mother fell 
asleep, and the daughter, v/ho had slumbered little the 
night before, could not but likewise drop into the 
world of soothing oblivion, though with a dull feeling 
ol aching and yearning towards the friendly kindly 
Humfrey, yet with a certain exultation in the fate 
that seemed to be carrying her on inevitably beyond 
his reach. 


200 


UKKUOWN TO UlSTOliY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTEE XVI. 

THE PEAK CAVERH. 

It was quite true that at this period Queen Mary had 
good hope of liberation in the most satisfactory 
manner possible — short of being hailed as English 
Queen. , Negotiations were actually on foot with James 
VI. and Elizabeth for her release. James had written 
to her with his own hand, and she had for the first 
time consented to give him the title of King of Scot- 
land. The project of her reigning jointly with him 
had been mooted, and each party was showing how 
enormous a condescension it would be in his or her 
eyes ! Thus there was no great unlikelihood that 
there would be a recognition of the Lady Bride, and 
that she would take her position as the daughter of a 
queen. Therefore, when Mary contrived to speak to 
Master Pdchard Talbot and his wife in private, she 
was able to thank them with gracious condescension 
for the care they had bestowed in rearing her daughter, 
much as if she had voluntarily entrusted the maiden to 
them, saying she trusted to be in condition to reward 
them. 

Mistress Susan’s heart swelled high with pain, as 
though she had been thanked for her care of Hum- 
frey or Diccon, and her husband answered, “We seek 


XVI.] THE PEAK CAVERN. 20\ 

no reward, madam. The damsel herself, while she 
was ours, was reward enough.” 

“ And I must still entreat, that of your goodness 
you will let lier remain yours for a little longer,” said 
Mary, with a touch of imperious grace, “ until tin’s 
treaty is over, and I am free, it is better that she con- 
tinues to pass for your daughter. The child herself 
has sworn to me by her great gods,” said Mary, smil- 
ing with complimentary grace, “ that you will pre- 
serve her secret — nay, she becomes a little fury when 
I express my fears lest you should have scruples.” 

“ No, madam, this is no state secret ; such as 1 
might not with honour conceal,” returned Eichard. 

“ There is true English sense ! ” exclaimed Mary. 
“ I may then count on your giving my daughter the 
protection of your name and your home until I can 
reclaim her and place her in her true position. Yea, 
and if your concealment should give offence, and bring 
you under any displeasure of my good sister, those who 
have so saved and tended my daughter will have the 
first claim to whatever I can give when restored to 
my kingdom.” 

“We are much beholden for your Grace’s favour,” 
said Eichard, somewhat stiffly, “ but I trust never tc 
serve any land save mine own.” 

“ Ah ! there is your fitreU" cried Mary. “ Happy 
is my sister to have subjects with such a point of 
honour. Happy is my child to have been bred up by 
such parents ! ” 

Eichard bowed. It was all a man could do at such 
a speech, and Mary further added, “ She has told me 
to what bounds went your goodness to her. It is well 
that you acted so prudently that the children’s hearts 
were not engaged ; for, as we all know but too well, 
royal blood should have no heart.” 


202 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CIL\F 

- 1 am quite aware of it, madam,” returned Kicli- 
ard, and there for the time the conversation ended 
The Queen had been most charming, full of gratitude, 
and perfectly reasonable in her requests, and yet there 
was some flaw in the gratification of both, even while 
neither thought the disappointment would go very 
hard with their son. Eichard could never divest him- 
self of the instinctive prejudice with which soft words 
inspire men of his nature, and Susan’s maternal heart 
was all in revolt against the inevitable, not merely 
grieving over the wrench to her affections, but full of 
forebodings and misgivings as to the future welfare of 
her adopted child. Even if the brightest hopes should 
be fulfilled ; the destiny of a Scottish princess did not 
seem to Southern eyes very brilliant at the best, and 
whether poor Bride Hepburn might be owned as a 
princess at all was a doubtful matter, since, if her 
father lived (and he had certainly been living in 1577 
in Norway), both the Queen and the Scottish people 
would be agreed in repudiating the marriage. Any 
way, Susan saw every reason to fear for the happi- 
ness and the religion alike of the child to whom she 
had given a mother’s love. Under her grave, self- 
contained placid demeanour, perhaps Dame Susan was 
the most dejected of those at Buxton. The captive 
Queen had her hopes of freedom and her newly found 
daughter, who was as yet only a pleasure, and not an 
encumbrance to her, the Earl had been assured that 
liis wife’s slanders had been forgotten. He was 
secure of his sovereign’s favour, and permitted to see 
the term of his weary jailorship, and thus there was 
an unusual liveliness and cheerfulness about the whole 
sojourn at Buxton, where, indeed, there was always 
more or less of a holiday time. 


THE PEAK CAVERN. 


203 


XVI.] 

To Cis herself, her nights were like a perpetual 
fairy tale, and so indeed were all times when she wag 
alone with the initiated, who were indeed all those 
original members of her mother’s suite who had known 
of her birth at Lochleven, people who had kept tco 
many perilous secrets not to be safely entrusted with 
this one, and whose finished habits of caution, in a 
moment, on the approach of a stranger, would change 
their manner from the deferential courtesy due to their 
princess, to the good-natured civility of court ladies to 
little Cicely Talbot. 

Dame Susan had been gratified at first by the young 
girl’s sincere assurances of unchanging affection and 
allegiance, and, in truth, Cis had clung the most to her 
with the confidence of a whole life’s daughterhood, but 
as the days went on, and every caress and token of 
affection imaginable was lavished upon the maiden, 
every splendid augury held out to her of the future, 
and every story of the past detailed the charms of 
Mary’s court life in France, seen through the vista of 
nearly twenty sadly contrasted years, it was in the 
very nature of things that Cis should regard the time 
spent perforce with Mistress Talbot much as a petted 
child views its return to the strict nurse or governess 
from the delights of the drawing-room. She liked to 
iazzle the homely housewife with the wonderful tales 
of French gaieties, or the splendid castles in the air she 
had heard in the Queen’s rooms, but she resented the 
doubt and disapproval they sometimes excited ; she was 
petulant and fractious at any exercise of authority 
from her foster-mother, and once or twice went near 
to betray herself by lapsing into a tone towards her 
which would have brought down severe personal 
chastisement on any real daughter even of seventeen. 


204 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


It was weU that the Countess and her sharp-eyed 
daughter Mary were out of sight, as the sight of such 
“ cockering of a malapert maiden ” would have led to 
interference that miglit have brought matters to ex- 
tremity. Yet, with all the forbearance thus exercised, 
Susan could not but feel that the giiTs love was being 
weaned from her ; and, after all, how could she com- 
})lain, since it was by the true mother ? If only she 
could have hoped it was for the dear child’s good, it 
would not have been so hard ! But the trial was a 
bitter one, and not even her husband guessed how 
bitter it was. 

The Queen meantime improved daily in health and 
vigour in the splendid summer weather. The rheu- 
matism had quitted her, and she daily rode and played 
at Trowle Madame for hours after supper in the long 
bright July evenings. Cis, whose shoulder was quite 
well, played with great delight on the gi'eensward, 
where one evening she made acquaintance with a young 
esquire and his sisters from the neighbourhood, who 
had come with their father to pay their respects to my 
Lord Earl, as the head of all Hallamshire. The Earl, 
though it was not quite according to the recent stricter 
rules, ventured to invite them to stay to sup with the 
household, and afterwards they came out with the rest 
upon the lawn. 

Cis was walking between the young lad and his 
sister, laughing and talking with much animation, for 
she had not for some time enjoyed the pleasure of free 
intercourse with any of her fellow-denizens in the 
happy land of youth. 

Dame Susan watched her with some uneasiness, and 
presently saw her taking them where she herself was 
privileged to go, but strangers wesre never permitted 


THE PEAK CAVERN. 


205 


n-,.] 

to approach, on the Trowle Madame sward reserved 
foi the t^ueen, on which she was even now enterinjr. 

" Cicely !” she called, but the young lady either 
(] id not or would not hear, and she was obliged to walk 
liastily forward, meet the party, and with courteous 
excuses turn them back from the forbidden ground. 
They sid)mitted at once, apologising, but Cis, witli a 
red si)ot on her cheek, cried, “ The Queen would take 
no offence.” 

“ That is not the matter in point. Cicely,” said 
Dame Susan gravely. “ Master and Mistress Eyre 
understand that we are bound to obedience to the Earl.” 

Mastei- Eyre, a well-bred young gentleman, made 
reply that he well knew that no discourtesy was 
intended, but Cis pouted and muttered, evidently to 
the extreme amazement of Mistress Alice Eyre ; and 
Dame Susan, to divert her attention, began to ask 
about the length of their ride, and the way to their 
liome. 

Cis’s ill humour never lasted long, and she suddenly 
broke in, “ 0 mother. Master Eyre saith there is a 
marvellous cavern near his father’s house, all full of 
j)eudants from the roof like a minster, and great 
sheeted tables and statues standing up, all grand and 
ghostly on the floor, far better than in this Pool’s Hole. 
He says his father will have it lighted up if we will 
ride over and see it.” 

“ We are much beholden to Master Eyre,” said 
Susan, but Cis read refusal in her tone, and began to 
urge her to consent. 

“ It must be as my husband wills,” was the grave 
answer, and at the same time, co urteously, but very 
decidedly, she bade the strangers farewell, and made 
her d.wighter do the same, though Cis was inclined to 


206 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[chap. 

msistance, and in a somewhat defiant tone added, “ 1 
shall not forget your promise, sir. I long to see the 
cave.” 

“ Child, child,’ entreated Susan, as soon as they 
were out of hearing, “ be on thy guard. Thou wilt 
betray thyself by such conduct towards me.” 

“ But, mother, they did so long to see the Queen, 
and there would have been no harm in it. They are 
well affected, and the young gentleman is a friend of 
poor Master Babington.” 

“ Nay, Cis, that is further cause that I should not 
let them pass onward. I marvel not at thee, my maid, 
but thou and thy mother queen must bear in mind 
that w’hile thou passest for our daughter, and hast 
trust placed in thee, thou must do nothing to forfeit it 

or bring thy fa , IMaster Eichard I mean, into 

trouble.” 

“ I meant no harm,” said Cis, rather crossly. 

“ Thou didst not, but harm may be done by such as 
mean it the least.” 

“ Only, mother, sweet mother,” cried the girl, child- 
like, set upon her pleasure, “ I will be as good as can 
be. I will transgress in nought if only thou wilt get 
my father to take me to see Master Eyre’s cavern.” 

She was altogether the home daughter again in her 
eagerness, entreating and promising by turns with the 
eager curiosity of a young girl bent on an expedition, 
but Eichard was not to be prevailed on. He had 
little or no acquaintance with the Eyre family, and to 
let them go to the cost and trouble of lighting up the 
cavern for the young lady’s amusement would be like 
the encouragement of a possible suit, which would 
have been a most inconvenient matter. Eichard did 
not believe the young gentleman had warrant from his 


THE PEAK CAVERN. 


207 


XVI.] 

father in giving this invitation, and if he had, that was 
the more reason for dedining it. The Eyres, then hold* 
ing the royal castle of the Peak, were suspected of being 
secretly Koman Catholics, and though the Earl could 
not avoid hospitably bidding them to supper, tne less 
any Talbot had to do with them the better, and for the 
present Cis must be contented to be reckoned as one. 

So she had to put up with her disappointment, and 
she did not do so with as good a grace as she would 
have shown a year ago. Nay, she carried it to Queen 
Mary, who at night heard her gorgeous description of 
the wonders of the cavern, which grew in her estima- 
tion in proportion to the difficulty of seeing them, and 
sympathised with her disappointment at the denial. 

“ Nay, thou shalt not be balked,” said Mary, with 
the old queenly habit of having her own way. 
“ Prisoner as I am, I will accomplish this. My 
daughter shall have her wish.” 

So on the ensuing morning, when the Earl came to 
pay his respects, Mary assailed him with, “ There is a 
marvellous cavern in these parts, my Lord, of which I 
hear great wonders.” 

" Does your grace mean Pool’s Hole ?” 

“ Nay, nay, my Lord. Have I not been conducted 
through it by Dr. Jones, and there writ my name for 
his delectation ? This is, I hear, as a palace compared 
therewith.'' 

“ The Peak Cavern, Madam !” said Lord Shrewsbury, 
with Ihe distaste of middle age for underground expedi- 
tions, “ is four leagues hence, and a dark, damp, doleful 
den, most noxious for your Grace’s rheumatism.” 

“ Have you ever seen it, my Lord ?” 

“ No, verily,” returned his lordship with a shudder. 

* Then you will be edified yourself, my Lord, if you 


208 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CTIA; 

will do me the grace to escort me thither,” said Mary, 
with the imperious suavity she well knew how to 
adopt. 

“ Madam, madam,” cried the unfortunate Earl, “ do 
but consult your physicians. They will tell you that ill 
the benefits of the Buxton 'waters will be annulled b}’ 
an hour in yonder subterranean liole.” 

“ I have heard of it from several of my suite,” re- 
plied Mary, “ and they teU me that the work of nature 
on the lime-droppings is so marvellous that I shall not 
rest without a sight of it. Many have been instant 
with me to go and behold the wondrous place.” 

This was not untrue, but she had never thought of 
gratifying them in her many previous visits to Buxton. 
The Earl found himself obliged either to utter a harsh 
and unreasonable refusal, or to organise an expedition 
which he personally disliked extremely, and moreover 
distrusted, for he did not in the least believe that 
Queen Mary would be so set upon gratifying her curi- 
osity about stalactites without some ulterior motive. 
He tried to set on Dr. Jones to persuade Messieurs 
Gorion and Bourgoin, her medical attendants, that 
the cave would be fatal to her rheumatism, but it so 
happened that the Peak Cavern was Dr. Jones’s 
favourite lion, the very pride of his heart. Pool’s Holt, 
was dear to him, but the Peak Cave was far more 
precious, and the very idea of the Queen of Scots 
honouring it with her presence, and leaving behind her 
the flavour of her name, was so exhilarating to the 
little man that if the place had been ten times more 
damp he would have vouched for its salubrity. More- 
over, he undertook that fumigations of fragrant woods 
should remove all peril of noxious exhalations, so that 
the Earl was obliged to give his orders that Mr, 


THE PEAK CAVERN. 


209 


iCVL] 

Eyre should be requested to light up the cave and 
heartily did he grumble and pour forth his suspiciona 
and annoyance to his cousin Eichard. 

“ And I,” said the good sailor, “ felt it hard not to 
be able to tell him that all was for the freak of a silly 
damsel/’ 

Mistress Cicely laughed a little triumphantly. It * 
was something like being a Queen’s daughter to have 
been the cause of making my Lord himself bestir him- 
self against his wiU. She had her own way, and 
might well be good - humoured. “ Come, dear sir 
father,” she said, coming up to him in a coaxing, 
patronising way, which once would have been quite 
alien to them both, “ be not angered. You know no- 
body means treason ! And, after all, ’tis not I but 
you that are the cause of all the turmoil. If you 
would but have ridden soberly out with your poor 
little Cis, there would have been no cod, but my Lord 
might have paced stately and slow up and down the 
terrace-walk undisturbed.” 

“ Ah, child, child ! ” said Susan, vexed, though her 
husband could not help smiling at the arch drollery of 
the girl’s tone and manner, “ do not thou learn light 
mockery of all that should be honoured.” 

“ I am not bound to honour the Earl,” said Cis, 
proudly. 

" Hush, hush ! ” said Eichard. “ I have allowed 
thee imche'^ked too long, maiden. Wert thou ten 
limes what thou art, it would not give thee the right 
to mock at the gray-haired, highly-trusted noble, the 
head of the name thou dost bear.” 

“ And the tonnent of her whom I am most bound 
to love,” broke from Cicely petulantly. 

Eichard’s response to this sally was to rise up 
P 


210 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY [CHAI 

make the young lady the lowest possible reverence 
with extreme and displeased gravity, and then to qiik 
the room. It brought the girl to her bearings at once, 
“ Oh, mother, mother, how have I displeased him ?” 

“ I trow thou canst not help it, child,” said Susan, 
sadly ; “ but it is hard that thou shouldst bring home 
to us how thine heart and thine obedience are parted 
from us.” 

The maiden was in a passion of tears at once, 
vowing that she meant no such thing, that she loved 
and obeyed them as much as ever, and that if only 
her father would forgive her she would never wish to 
go near the cavern. She would beg the Queen to give 
up the plan at once, if only Sir Eichard would be her 
good father as before. 

Susan looked at her sadly and tenderly, but smiled, 
and said that what had been lightly begun could not 
now be dropped, and that she trusted Cis would be 
happy in the day’s enjoyment, and remember to be- 
have herself as a discreet maiden. “ For truly,” said 
she, “ so far from discretion being to be despised by 
Queen’s daughters, the higher the estate the greater the 
need thereof.” 

This little breeze did not prevent Cicely from setting 
off in high spirits, as she rode near the Queen, who 
declared that she wanted to enjoy through the merry 
maiden, and who was herself in a gay and joyous mood, 
believing that the term of her captivity was in sight 
delighted with her daughter, exhilarated by the fresh 
breezes and rapid motion, and so mirthful that she 
sould not help teasing and bantering the Earl a little, 
though all in the way of good-humoured grace. 

The ride was long, about eight miles ; but though the 
Peak Castle was a royal one, the Earl preferred not tc 


THE PEAK CAVERN. 


211 


xvl] 

euter it, but, according to previous arrangement, caused 
the company to dismount in the valley, or rather ravine, 
which terminates in the cavern, where a repast was 
spread on the grass. It was a wonderful place, cool and 
refreshing, for the huge rocks on either side cast a deep 
shadow, seldom pierced by the rays of the sun. Lofty, 
solemn, and rich in dark reds and purples, rose the walls 
of rock, here and there softened by tapestry of ivy or 
projecting bushes of sycamore, mountain ash, or with 
fruit already assuming its brilliant tints, and jack- 
daws flying in and out of their holes above. Deep 
beds of rich ferns clothed the lower slopes, and sheets 
of that delicate flower, the enchanter’s nightshade, 
reared its white blossoms down to the bank of a little 
clear stream that came flowing from out of the mighty 
yawning arch of the cavern, while above the precipice 
rose sheer the keep of Peak Castle. 

The banquet was gracefully arranged to suit the 
scene, and comprised, besides more solid viands, large 
bowls of milk, with strawberries or cranberries floating 
in them. Mr. Eyre, the keeper of the castle, and his 
daughter did the honours, while his son superintended 
the lighting and fumigation of the cavern, assisted, if 
not directed by Dr. Jones, whose short black cloak and 
gold-headed cane were to be seen almost everywhere 
at once. 

Presently clouds of smoke began to issue from the 
vast archway that closed the ravine. “Beware, my 
maidens,” said the Queen, merrily, “ we have roused 
the dragon in his den, and we shall see him come forth 
anon, curling his tail and belching flame.” 

“ With a marvellous stcmach for a dainty maiden 
or two,” added Gilbert Curll, falling into her humour. 

“ Hark ! Good lack ! ” cried the Queen, with an 


212 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CHAP 

affectation of terror, as a most extraordinary noise pro 
ceeded from the bowels of the cavern, making Cis stait 
and Marie de Courcelles give a genuine shriek. 

“ Your Majesty is pleased to be merry,” said the 
Earl, ponderously. “ The sound is only the coughing 
of the torchbearers from the damp whereof I warned 
your Majesty.” 

“ By my faith,” said Mary, “ I believe my Lord 
Earl himself fears the monster of the cavern, to whom 
he gives the name of Damp. Dread nothing, my 
Lord ; the valorous knight Sir Jones is even now in 
conflict with the foul worm, as those cries assure me, 
being in fact caused by his fumigations.” 

The jest was duly received, and in the midst of the 
laughter, young Eyre came forward, bowing low, and 
holding his jewelled hat in his hand, while his eyes 
betrayed that he had recently been sneezing violently. 

“ So please your Majesty,” he said, “ the odour hath 
rolled away, and all is ready if you will vouchsafe to 
accept my poor guidance.” 

“ How say you, my Lord ?” said IVlary. “ Will you 
dare the lair of the conquered foe, or fear you to be 
pinched with aches and pains by his lurking hob- 
goblins ? If so, we dispense with your attendance.” 

“ Your Majesty knows that where she goes thither 
I am bound to attend her,” said the rueful Earl. 

“ Even into the abyss ! ” said Mary. “ Valiantly 
spoken, for have not Ariosto and his fellows sung of 
captive princesses for whom every cave held an enchanter 
who could spirit them away into vapour thin as air, and 
leave their guardians questing in vain for them ? ” 

“ Your Majesty jests with edged tools,” sighed the 
Earl. 

Old Mr. Eyre was too feeble to act as exhibitor of 


THE PEAK CAVERN. 


213 


XVI.] 

the cave, and his son was deputed to lead the Queen 
forward. This was, of course, Lord Shrewsbury’s privi- 
lege, but he was in truth beholden to her fingers for 
aid, as she walked eagerly forward, now and then 
accepting a little help from John Eyre, but in general 
sure-footed and exploring eagerly by the light of the 
numerous torches held by yeomen in the Eyre livery, 
one of whom was stationed wherever there was a 
dangerous pass or a freak of nature worth studying. 

The magnificent vaulted roof grew lower, and pre- 
sently it became necessary to descend a staircase, which 
led to a deep hollow chamber, shaped like a bell, and 
echoing like one. A pool of intensely black water 
filled it, reflecting the lights on its surface, that only 
enhanced its darkness, while there moved on a mys- 
terious flat-bottomed boat, breaking them into shim- 
mering sparks, and John Eyre intimated that the 
visitors must lie down flat in it to be ferried one by 
one over a space of about fourteen yards. 

“ Your Majesty will surely not attempt it,” said the 
Earl, with a shudder. 

“ Wherefore not ? It is but a foretaste of Charon’s 
boat ! ” said Mary, who was one of those people whose 
spirit of enterprise rises with the occasion, and she 
murmured to Mary Seaton the line of Dante — 

“ Quando noi fermerem li nostri passi 
Su la triste riviera a’ Acheronte.” 

“ Will your Majesty enter ? ” asked John Eyre. 
“ Dr. Jones and some gentlemen wait on the other side 
to receive you.” 

Some gentlemen ?” repeated Mary. “ You are sure 
the) are not Minos and Ehadamanthus, sir ? My 
obolu* is ready ; shall I put it in my mouth ? ” 

“ Nay, madam, pardon me,” said the Earl, spurred 


214 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [(JHAT 

by a miserable sense of his duties ; “ since you will 
thus venture, far be it from me to let you pass over 
until I have reached the other side to see that it is fit 
for your Majesty ! ” 

“ Even as you will, most devoted cavalier,” said 
Mary, drawing back ; “ we will be content to play the 
part of the pale ghosts of the unburied dead a little 
longer. See, Mary, the boat sinks dowui with him and 
his mortal flesh ! We shall have Charon complaining 
of him anon.” 

“ Your Highness gars my flesh grue,” was the 
answer of her faithful Mary. 

“ Ah, ma mie ! we have not left all hope behind. 
We can afford to smile at the doleful knight, ferried 
o’er on his back, in duteous and loyal submission to 
his task mistress. Child, Cicely, where art thou ? 
Art afraid to dare the black river ? ” 

“ No, madam, not with you on the other side, and 
my father to follow me.” 

“ Well said. Let the maiden follow next after me. 
Or mayhap Master Eyre should come next, then the 
young lady. For you, my ladies, and you, good sirs, 
you are free to follow or not, as the fancy strikes you 
So — here is Charon once more — must I lie down ? ” 

“Ay, madam,” said Eyre, “ if you would not strike 
your head against yonder projecting rock,” 

Mary lay down, her cloak drawn about her, and 
saying, “ Now then, for Acheron. Ah ! would that it 
were Lethe ! ” 

“Her Grace saith well,” muttered faithful Jean 
Kennedy, unversed in classic lore, “ would that we 
were once more at bonnie Leith. Soft there now, ’tis 
you that follow her next, my fair mistress.” 

^Cicely, not without trepidation, obeyed, laid herself 


THE PEAK CAVEKN, 


215 


xvl] 

flat, and was soon midway, feeling the passage so grim 
and awful, that she could think of nothing but th« 
dark passages of the grave, and was shuddering all 
over, when she was helped out on the other side by the 
Queen’s own hand. 

Some of those in the rear did not seem to be simi- 
larly affected, or else braved their feelings of awe by 
shouts and songs, which echoed fearfully through the 
subterranean vaults. Indeed Diccon, following the 
example of one or two young pages and grooms of 
the Earl’s, began to get so daring and wild in the 
strange scene, that his father became anxious, and 
tarried for him on the other side, in the dread of his 
wandering away and getting lost, or falling into some 
of the fearful dark rivers that could be heard — not seen 
— rushing along. By this means, Master Richard was 
entirely separated from Cicely, to whom, before crossing 
the water, he had been watchfully attending, but ho 
knew her to be with the Queen and her ladies, and con- 
sidered her natural timidity the best safeguard against 
the chief peril of the cave, namely, wandering away. 

Cicely did, however, miss his care, for the Queen 
could not but be engrossed by her various cicerones 
and attendants, and it was no one’s especial business 
to look after the young girl over the rough deseent to 
the dripping well called Roger Rain’s House, and the 
grand cathedral-like gallery, with splendid pillars of 
stalagmite, and pendants above. By the time the 
steps beyond were reached, a toilsome descejit, tlie 
Queen had had enough of the expedition, aud declined 
to go any farther, but she goud-naturedly yielded to 
the wish of Master John Eyre and Dr. Jones, that 
she would inscribe her name on the farthest column 
that she had reached. 


216 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

There was a little confusion while this was being 
done, as some of the more enterprising wished to 
penetrate as far as possible into the recesses of the 
cave, and these were allowed to pass forward — Diccon 
and his father among them. In the passing and re- 
passing, Cicely entirely lost sight of all who had any 
special care of her, and went stumbling on alone, 
weary, frightened, and repenting of the wilfulness with 
which she had urged on the expedition. Each of 
the other ladies had some cavalier to help her, but 
none had fallen to Cicely’s lot, and though, to an 
active girl, there was no real d auger where the torch- 
bearers lined the way, still there was so much diffi- 
culty that she was a laggard in reaching the likeness 
of Acheron, and could see no father near as she laid 
herself down in Charon’s dismal boat, dimly rejoicing 
that this time it was to return to the realms of day, 
and yet feeling as if she should never reach them. A 
hand was given to assist her from the boat by one of 
the torchbearers, a voice strangely familiar was in her 
ears, saying, “ Mistress Cicely ! ” and she knew the 
eager eyes, and exclaimed under her breath, “ Antony, 
you here ? In hiding? What have you done?” 

“ Nothing,” he answered, smiling, and holding her 
hand, as he helped her forward. “ I only put on this 
garb that I might gaze once more on the most divine 
and persecuted of queens, and with some hope likewise 
that I might win a word with her who deigned once 
to be my playmate. Lady, I know the truth respecting 
you.” 

“ Do you in very deed ?” demanded Cicely, consider- 
ably startled. 

“ I know your true name, and that you are none of 
the mastiff race,” said Antony. 


THE TEAK CAVERN. 


217 


jlvl] 

" Did — did Tibbott tell you, sir ?” asked Cicely. 

“ You are one of us,” said Antony ; “ bound by 
natural allegiance in the land of your birth to this 
lady.” 

“Even so,” said Cis, here becoming secure of what 
she had before doubted, that Babington only knew half 
the truth he referred to. 

“ And you see and speak with her privily,” he 
added. 

“ As Bess Pierrepoint did,” said she. 

These words passed during the ascent, and were 
much interrupted by the difficulties of the way, in 
which Antony rendered such aid that she was each 
moment more impelled to trust to him, and relieved to 
find herself in such familiar hands. On reaching the 
summit the light of day could be seen glimmering in 
tlie extreme distance, and the maiden’s heart bounded 
at the sight of it; but she found herself led some- 
what aside, where in a sort of side aisle of the great 
bell chamber were standing together four more of the 
torch-bearers. 

One of them, a slight man, made a step forward 
and said, “ The Queen hath dropped her kerchief. 
Mayhap the young gentlewoman will restore it?” 

“ She will do more than that !” said Antony, draw- 
ing her into the midst of them. “ Dost not know her, 
Langston ? She is her sacred Majesty’s own born, true, 
and faithful subject, the Lady ” 

“ Hush, my friend ; thou art ever over outspoken 
with thy names,” returned the other, evidently annoyed 
at Babington’s imprudence. 

“I tell thee, she is one of us,” replied Antony 
impatiently. “ How is the Queen to know of her 
friends if we name them not to her ?” 


218 UNKNOWN ro HISTORY. [CHAP. 

“Are these her friends?” asked Cicely, looking 
round on the five figures in the leathern coats and 
yeomen’s heavy buskins and shoes, and especially at 
the narrow face and keen pale eyes of Langston. 

“ Ay, verily,” said one, whom Cicely could see even 
under his disguise to be a slender, graceful youth. “ By 
John Eyre’s favour have we come together here to 
gaze on the true and lawful mistress of our hearts, the 
champion of our faith, in her martyrdom.” Then 
taking the kerchief from Langston’s hand, Babington 
kissed it reverently, and tore it into five pieces, which 
he divided amoug himself and his fellows, saying, 
“ This fair mistress shall bear witness to her sacred 
Majesty that we — Antony Babington, Chidiock Tich- 
borne, Cuthbert Langston, John Charnock, John Savage 
— regard her as the sole and lawful Queen of England 
and Scotland, and that as we have gone for her sake 
into the likeness of the valley of the shadow of death, 
so will we meet death itself and stain this linen with 
our best heart’s blood rather than not bring her again 
to freedom and the throne !” 

Then with the most solemn oath each enthusiastic- 
ally kissed the white token, and put it in his breast, 
but Langston looked with some alarm at the girl, and 
said to Babington, “ Doth this young lady understand 
that you have put our lives into her hands ?” 

“ She knows ! she knows ! I answer for her with 
my life,” said Antony. 

“ Let her then swear to utter no word of what she 
has seen save to the Queen,” said Langston, and Cicely 
detected a glitter in that pale eye, and with a horrified 
leap of thought, recollected how easy it would be to drag 
her away into one of those black pools, beyond all ken. 

“ Oh save me, Antony ” she cried, clinging to his arm. 


XVI.] 


THE PEAK CAVERN. 


219 


“No one shall touch you. I will guard you with 
my life !” exclaimed the impulsive young man, feeling 
for the sword that was not there. 

“ Who spoke of hurting the foolish wench ?” growled 
Savage ; but Tichborne said, “No one would hurt 
you, madam ; hut it is due to us all that you should 
give us your word of honour not to disclose what has 
passed, save to our only true mistress.” 

“ Oh yes ! yes !” cried Cicely hastily, scarcely know- 
ing what passed her lips, and only anxious to escape 
from that gleaming eye of Langston, which had twice 
before filled her with a nameless sense of the necessity 
of terrified obedience. “ Oh ! let me go. I hear my 
father’s voice.” 

She sprang forward with a cry between joy and 
terror, and darted up to Eichard Talbot, while Savage, 
the man who looked most entirely unlike a disguised 
gentleman, stepped forward, and in a rough, north 
country dialect, averred that the young gentlewoman 
had lost her way. 

“ Poor maid,” said kind Richard, gathering the two 
trembling little hands into one of his own broad ones. 
“ How was it ? Thanks, good fellow,” and he dropped 
a broad piece into Savage’s palm ; “ thou hast done 
good service. What, Cis, child, art quaking ?” 

“ Hast seen any hobgoblins, Cis ?” said Diccon, at 
her other side. “ I’m sure I heard them laugh.” 

“ Whist, Dick,” said his father, putting a strong arm 
round the girl’s waist. “ See, my wench, yonder is the 
goodly liglit of day. We shall soon be there.” 

With aU his fatherly kindness, he helped the agi- 
tat(}d girl up the remaining ascent, as the lovely piece 
of blue sky between the retreating rocks grew wider, 
and the archway higher above them. Cis felt that 


220 UNKNOWN TO IIISTOKY. [CHAP. 

infinite repose and reliance that none else could give, 
yet the repose was disturbed by the pang of recol- 
lection that the secret laid on her was their first 
severance. It was unjust to his kindness ; strange, 
doubtful, nay grisly, to her foreboding mind, and she 
shivered alike from that and the chill of the damp 
cavern, and then he drew her cloak more closely about 
her, and halted to ask for the flask of wine which one 
of the adventurous spirits had brought, that Queen 
Elizabeth’s health might be drunk by her true subjects 
in the bowels of the earth. The wine was, of course, 
exhausted ; but Dr. j ones bustled forward with some 
cordial waters which he had provided in case of any- 
one being struck with the chill of the cave, and Cicely 
was made to swallow some. 

By this time she had been missed, and the little 
party were met by some servants sent by the Earl at 
the instance of the much-alarmed Queen to inquire for 
her. A little farther on came Mistress Talbot, in much 
anxiety and distress, though as Diccon ran forward to 
meet her, and she saw Cicely on her husband’s arm, 
she resumed her calm and staid demeanour, and when 
assured that the maiden had suffered no damage, she 
made no special demonstrations of joy or affection. 
Indeed, such would have been deemed unbecoming in 
the presence of strangers, and disrespectful to the 
Queen and the Earl, who were not far off. 

Mary, on the other hand, started up, held out her 
arms, received the truant with such vehement kisses, 
as might almost have betrayed their real relationship, 
and then reproached her, with all sorts of endearing 
terms, for having so terrified them all; nor would she let 
the girl go from her side, and kept her hand in her own. 

Diccon meanwhile had succeeded in securing his 


THE PEAK CAVEliN. 


221 


XVI.j 

father’s attention, which had been wholly given to 
Cicely till she was placed in the women’s hands. 
“ Father,” he said, “ I wis that one of the knaves with 
the torches who found our Cis was the woman with the 
beads and bracelets, ay, and Tibbott, too.” 

■‘BelDve, belike, my son,” said Eichard. “There 
are folk who can take as many forms as a barnacle 
goose. Keep thou a sharp eye as the fellows pass 
out, and pull me by the cloak if thou seest him.” 

Of course he was not seen, and Eichard, who was 
growing more and more cautious about bringing vague 
or half-proved suspicions before Lord, decided to 
be silent and to watch, though he sighed to his wife 
that the poor child would soon be in the web. 

Cis had not failed to recognise that same identity, 
and to feel a half-realised conviction that the Queen 
had not chosen to confide to her that the two female 
disguises both belonged to Langston. Yet the con- 
trast between Mary’s endearments and the restrained 
manner of Susan so impelled her towards the veritable 
mother, that the compunction as to the concealment 
she had at first experienced passed away, and her heart 
felt that its obligations were towards her veritable and 
most loving parent. She told the Queen the whole 
story at night, to Mary’s great delight. She said she 
was sure her little one had something on her mind, she 
had so little to say of her adventure, and the next day 
a little privy council was contrived, in which Cicely was 
summoned again to tell her tale. The ladies declared 
they had always hoped much from their darling page, in 
whom they had kept up the true faith, but Sir Aiidrew 
Melville shook his head and said: “I’d misdoot ony 
plot where the little finger of him was. What garred 
the silly loon call in the young leddy ere he kenned 
whether she wad keep counsel ?” 


222 


ONKiJOWM TO HISTOEY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE EBBING WELL. 

Cicely’s thirst for adventures had received a check, 
but the Queen, being particularly well and in good 
spirits, and trusting that this would be her last visit 
to Buxton, was inclined to enterprise, and there were 
long rides and hawking expeditions on the moors. 

The last of these, ere leaving Buxton, brought the 
party to the hamlet of Barton Clough, where a loose 
horseshoe of the Earl’s caused a halt at a little wayside 
smithy. Mary, always friendly and free-spoken, asked 
for a draught of water, and entered into conversation 
with the smith’s rosy-cheeked wife who brought it to 
her, and said it was sure to be good and pure for the 
stream came from the Ebbing and Flowing WeU, and 
she pointed up a steep path. Then, on a further 
question, she proceeded, “Has her ladyship never 
heard of the Ebbing Well that shows whether true 
love is soothfast?” 

“ How so ? ” asked the Queen. “ How precious 
such a test might be. It would save many a maiden 
a broken heart, only that the poor fools would ne’er 
trust it.” 

“ I have heard of it,” said the Earl, “ and Dr. Jones 
would demonstrate to your Grace that it is but a 


XVII.] THE EBBING WELL. 223 

superstition of the vulgar regarding a natural pheno- 
menon.” 

“ Yea, my Lord,” said the smith, looking up fiom 
the horse’s ioot ; “ ’tis the trade of yonder philosophers 
to gainsay wliatever honest folk believed before them. 
They’ll deny next that hens lay eggs, or blight rots 
wheat. My good wife speaks but plain truth, and we 
have seen it o’er and o’er again.” 

“ What have you seen, good man ?” asked Mary 
eagerly, and ready answer was made by the couple, 
who had acquired some cultivation of speech and 
manners by their wayside occupation, and likewise as 
cicerones to the spring. 

“ Seen, quoth the lady ?” said the smith. “ Why, 
he that is a true man and hath a true maid can quaff 
a draught as deep as his gullet can hold — or she that 
is true and hath a true love — but let one who hath a 
flaw in the metal, on the one side or t’other, stoop to 
drink, and the water shrinks away so as there’s not 
the moistening of a lip.” 

“ Ay : the ladies may laugh,” added his wife, “ but 
’tis soothfast for all that.” 

“ Hast proved it, good dame ?” asked the Queen 
archly, for the pair were still young and well-looking 
enough to be jested with. 

“ Ay ! have we not, madam ?” said the dame. 
“ Was not my man yonder, Eob, the tinker’s son, whom 
my father and brethren, the smiths down yonder at 
Buxton, thought but scorn of, but we’d taken a sup 
together at the Ebbing Well, and it played neither ( f us 
false, so we held out against ’em all, and when they saw 
there ’was no help for it, t/iey gave Eob the second 
best anvil and bellows for my portion, and here we 
be.” 


224 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CIIAP. 

“ Living witnesses to the "Well,” said the Queen 
merrily. “ How say you, my Lord ? I would fain see 
this marvel. Master Curll, will you try the venture 

“ I fear it not, madam,” said the secretary, looking 
at tlie blushing Barbara. 

Objections did not fail to arise from the Earl as to 
the difficulties of the path and the lateness of the hour, 
but Bob Smith, perhaps wilfully, discovered another 
of my Lord’s horseshoes to be in a perilous state, 
and his good wife. Dame Emmott, offered to conduct 
the ladies by so good a path that they might think 
themselves on the Queen’s Walk at Buxton itself. 

Lord Shrewsbury, finding himself a prisoner, was 
obliged to yield compliance, and leaving Sir Andrew 
Melville, with the grooms and falconers, in charge of 
the horses, the Queen, the Earl, Cicely, Mary Seaton, 
Barbara Mowbray, the two secretaries, and Eichard 
Talbot and young Diccon, started on the walk, to- 
gether with Dr. Bourgoin, her physician, who was 
eager to investigate the curiosity, and make it a sub- 
ject of debate with Dr. Jones. 

The path was a beautiful one, through rocks and 
brushwood, mountain ash bushes showing their coral 
berries amid their feathery leaves, golden and white 
stars of stonecrop studding every coign of vantage, 
and in more level spots the waxy bell-heather begin- 
ning to come into blossom. Stdl it was rather over 
praise to call it as smooth as the carefully-levelled 
and much-trodden Queen’s path at Buxton, considering 
that it ascended steeply all the way, anc made the 
solemn, much-enduring Earl pant for breath . but the 
Queen, her rheumatics for the time entirely in abey- 
ance, bounded on with the mountain step learned in 
early childhood, and closely followed the brisk Em* 


THE EBBING WELL. 


225 


xvil] 

iiiott. The last ascent was a steep pull, taking away 
the disposition to speak, and at its summit Mary stood 
still holding out one hand, with a finger of the other 
on her lips as a sign of silence to the rest of the 
suite and to Emmott, who stood flushed and angered ; 
for what she esteemed her lawful province seemed to 
have been invaded from the otlier side of the country. 

They were on the side of the descent from the 
moorlands connected with the Peak, on a small 
esplanade in the midst of which lay a deep clear 
pool, with nine small springs or fountains discharging 
themselves, under fern and wild rose or honeysuckle, 
into its basin. Steps had been cut in the rock lead- 
ing to the verge of the pool, and on the lowest of 
these, with his back to the new-comers, was kneeling 
a young man, his brown head bare, his short cloak laid 
aside, so that his well-knit form could be seen ; the 
sword and spurs that clanked against the rock, as well 
as the whole fashion and texture of his riding-dress, 
showing him to be a gentleman. 

“We shall see the venture made,” whispered Mary 
to her daughter, who, in Aurtue of youth and lightness 
of foot, had kept close behind her. Grasping the girl’s 
arm and smiling, she heard the young man’s voice cry 
aloud to the echoes of the rock, “ Cis !” then stoop 
forward and plunge face and head into the clear trans- 
lucent water. 

“ Good luck to a true lover !” smiled the Queen. 
“ What ! starting, silly maid ? Cisses are plenty in these 
parts as row^an berries.” 

“ Nay, but ” gasped Cicely, for at that moment 

the young man, rising from his knees, his face still 
shining with the water, looked up at his unsuspected 
spectators. An expression of astonishment and ecstasy 

Q 


226 UNKNOWN TO IfISTORY [CHAP. 

lighted up his honest sunburnt counterunce as Master 
Kichard, who had just succeeded in dragging the portly 
Earl up tlie steep path, met his gaze. He threw ii}) 
his arms, made apparently but one bound, and was 
kneeling at the captain’s feet, embracing his knees. 

“ My son ! Humfrey ! Thyself ! ” cried Eichard. 

“ See ! see what presence we are in.” 

“ Your blessing, father, first,” cried Humfrey, “ ere 
1 can see aught else.” 

And as Eichard quickly and thankfully laid his 
hand on the brow, so much fairer than the face, and 
then held his son for one moment in a close embrace, 
with an exchange of the kiss that was not then only 
a foreign fashion. Queen and Earl said to one another 
with a sigh, that happy was the household where the 
son had no eyes for any save his father. 

Mary, however, must have found it hard to con- 
tinue her smiles when, after due but hurried obeisance 
to her and to his feudal cliief, Humfrey turned to the 
little figure beside her, all smiling with startled shyness, 
and m one moment seemed to swallow it up in a huge 
overpowering embrace, fraternal in the eyes of almost 
all the spectators, but not by any means so to those 
of Mary, especially after the name she had heard. 
Diccon’s greeting was the next, and was not quite so 
visibly rapturous on the part of the elder brother, who 
explained that he had arrived at Sheffield yesterday, 
and finding no one to welcome him but little Edward, 
had set forth for Buxton alipost with daylight, and 
having found himself obliged to rest his horse, he had 

turned aside to . And here he recollected just in 

time that Cis was in every one’s eyes save his father’s, 
his own sister, and lamely concluded “to take a 
draught of water,” blushing under his brown skin as 


THE EBBING WELL. 


XVII.] 


227 


he spoke Poor fellow ! the Queen, even while she 
wished him in the farthest West Indian isle, could not 
help understanding that strange doubt and dread that 
come over the mind at the last moment before a 
longed-for meeting, and which had made even the bold 
young sailor glad to rally his hopes by this divination. 
Fortunately she thought only herself and one or two 
of the foremost had heard the name he gave, as was 
proved by the Earl’s good-humoured laugh, as he said, 

“ A draught, quotha ? We understand that, young 
sir. And who may this your true love be ?” 

“ That I hope soon to make known to your Lord- 
ship,” returned Humfrey, with a readiness which he 
certainly did not possess before his voyage. 

The ceremony was still to be fulfilled, and the 
smith’s wife called them to order by saying, ‘Good 
luck to the young gentleman. He is a stranger here, 
or he would have known he should have come up by 
our path ! Will you try the well, your Grace ?” 

Nay, nay, good woman, my time for such toys is 
over !” said the Queen smiling, “ but moved by such 
an example, here are others to make the venture, 
Master Curll is burning for it, I see.” 

“ I fear no such trial, an’t please your Grace,” said 
Curll, bowing, with a bright defiance of the water, and 
exchanging a confident smile with the blushing Mistress 
Barbara — then kneeling by the well, and uttering her 
name aloud ere stooping to drink. He too succeeded 
in obtaining a full draught, and came up triumphantly. 

“ The water is a flatterer !” said the Earl. “ It 
favours all.” 

The French secretary, Monsieur Nau, here came for- 
ward and took his place on the steps. No one heard 
but every one knew the word he spoke was "Bessie,” foi 


228 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. (CUAP 

Elizabeth Pierrepoint had long been the object of his 
affections. No doubt he hoped that he should obtain 
some encouragement from the water, even while he 
gave a little laugh of affected incredulity as though 
only complying with a form to amuse the Queen. 
Down he went on his knees, bending over the pool, 
when behold he could not reach it ! The streams that 
fed it were no longer issuing from the rock, the water 
was subsiding rapidly. The farther he stooped, the 
more it retreated, till he had almost fallen over, and 
the guide screamed out a note of warning, “ Have a 
care, sir ! If the water flees you, flee it will, and ye’ll 
not mend matters by drowning yourself.” 

How he was to be drowned by water that fled from 
him was not clear, but with a muttered malediction he 
arose and glanced round as if he thought the mortifi- 
cation a trick on the part of the higher powers, since 
the Earl did not think him a match for the Countess’s 
grandchild, and the Queen had made it known to him 
that she considered Bess Pierrepoint to have too much 
of her grandmother’s conditions to be likely to be a 
good wife. There was a laugh too, scarce controlled 
by some of the less well-mannered of the suite, especi- 
ally as the Earl, wishing to punish his presumption, 
loudly set the example. 

There was a pause, as the discomfited secretary 
came back, and the guide exclaimed, “ Come, my masters, 
be not daunted ! Will none of you come on ? Hath none 
of you faith in your love ? Oh, fie !” 

“We are married men, good women,” said Kichard, 
hoping to put an end to the scene, “ and thus can 
laugh at your well.” 

“ But will not these pretty ladies tiy it ? It speaks 
as sooth to lass as to lad.” 


X.V11.J THE EBBING WELL. 229 

“ I am ready,” said Barbara Mowbray, as Curll 
gave her his band to bound lightly down the steps. 
And to the general amazement, no sooner had “ Gilbert ” 
echoed from her lips than the fountains again burst 
fortli, the water rose, and she had no difficulty in 
reaching it, while no one could help bursting forth in 
applause. Her Gilbert fervently kissed the hand she 
gave him to aid her steps up the slope, and Dame 
Emmott, in triumpliant congratulation, scanned them 
over and exclaimed, “ Ay, trust the well for knowing 
true sweetheart and true maid. Come you next, fair 
mistress ?” Poor Mary Seaton shook her head, with 
a look that the kindly woman understood, and she 
turned towards Cicely, who had a girl’s unthinking 
impulse of curiosity, and had already put her hand 
into Humfrey’s, when his father exclaimed, “Hay, nay, 
the maid is yet too young !” and the Queen added, 
“ Come back, thou silly little one, these tests be not 
for babes like thee.” 

She was forced to be obedient, but she pouted a 
little as she was absolutely held fast by Eichard 
Talbot’s strong hand. Humfrey was disappointed too ; 
but all was bright with him just then, and as the party 
turned to make the descent, he said to her, “ It matters 
not, little Cis ! I’m sure of thee with the water or 
without, and after all, thou couldst but have whispered 
my name, till my father lets us speak all out !” 

They were too much hemmed in by other people 
for a private word, and a little mischievous banter waa 
going on with Sir Andrew Melville, who was supposed 
to have a grave elderly courtship with Mistress Ken- 
nedy. Humfrey was left in the absolute bliss of 
ignorance, while the old habit and instinct of joy and 
gladness in his presence reasserted itself in Cis, so 


230 UNKNOWN TO K2STOKY. [CHAP 

that, as lie Landed her down the rocks, she answered 
in the old tone all his inquiries about his mother, 
and all else that concerned them at home, Diccon 
meantime risking his limbs by scrambling outside 
the path, to keep abreast of his brother, and to put in 
his word whenever he could. 

On reaching the smithy, Humfrey had to go round 
another way to fetch his horse, and could hardly hope 
to come up with the rest before they reached Buxton. 
His brother was spared to go with him, but his father 
was too important a part of the escort to be spared. 
So Cicely rode near the Queen, and heard no more 
except the Earl’s version of Dr. Jones’s explanation of 
the intermitting spring. They reached home only just 
in time to prepare for supper, and the two youths 
appeared almost simultaneously, so that Mistress Tal- 
bot, sitting at her needle on the broad terrace in front 
of the Earl’s lodge, beheld to her amazement and 
delight the figure that, grown and altered as it was, 
she recognised in an instant. In another second 
Humfrey had sprung from his horse, rushed up the 
steps, he knew not how, and the Queen, with tears 
trembling in her eyes was saying, “ Ah, Melville ! see 
how sons meet their mothers !” 

The great clock was striking seven, a preposterously 
late hour for supper, and etiquette was stronger than 
sentiment or perplexity. Every one hastened to as- 
sume an evening toilette, for a riding-dress w ould have 
been an insult to the Earl, and the bell soon clanged 
to call them down to their places in the hall. Even 
Humfrey had brought in his cloak-bag wherewithal 
to make himself presentable, and soon appeared, a well- 
knit and active figure, in a plain dark blue jerkin, with 
white slashes, and long hose knitted by his mother’s 


THE EBBIEG WELL. 


231 


xvn.] 

dainty fingerd, and well-preserved shoes with blue 
rosettes, and a flat blue relvet cap, with an exquisite 
black and sapphire feather in it fastened by a curious 
brooch. His hair was so short that its naturally strong 
curl could hardly be seen, his ruddy sunburnt face 
could hardly be called handsome, but it was full of 
frankness and intelligence, and beaming with honest 
joy, and close to him moved little Diccon, hardly able 
to repress his ecstasy within company bounds, and let- 
ting it find vent in odd little gestures, wriggling with 
his body, playing tunes on his knee, or making dancing- 
steps with his feet. 

Lord Shrewsbury welcomed his young kinsman as 
one who had grown from a mere boy into a sturdy and 
effective supporter. He made the new-comer sit near 
him, and asked many questions, so that Humfrey was 
the chief speaker all supper time, with here and there 
a note from his father, the only person who had made 
the same voyage. All heard with eager interest of the 
voyage, the weeds in the Gulf Stream, the stiange 
birds and fishes, of Walter Ealeigh’s Virginian colony 
and its ill success, of the half-starved men whom Sir 
Eichard Grenville had found only too ready to leave 
Eoanoake, of dark-skinned Indians, of chases of Spanish 
ships, of the Peak of Teneriffe rising white from the 
waves, of phosphorescent seas, of storms, and of shark- 
catching. 

Supper over, the audience again gathered round the 
young traveller, a perfect fountain of various and won- 
derful information to those wdio had for the most part 
never seen a book of travels. He narrated simply and 
well, without his boyish shy embarrassment and awk- 
wardness, and likewise, as his father aione could judge, 
without boasting, though, if to no one else, to Diccon 


232 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CIIAP. 

and Cis, listening with wide open eyes, he seemed a 
hero of heroes. In the midst of his narration a message 
came that the Queen of Scots requested the presence of 
Mistress Cicely. Humfrey stared in discomfiture, and 
asked when she would return. 

“ Not to-night,” faltered the girl, and the mother 
added, for the benefit of the bystanders, “ For lack of 
other ladies of the household, much service hath of late 
fallen to Cicely and myself, and she shares the Queen’s 
chamber.” 

Humfrey had to submit to exchange good-nights 
with Cicely, and she made her way less willingly than 
usual to the apartments of the Queen, who was being 
made ready for her bed. “ Here comes our truant,” 
she exclaimed as the maiden entered. “ I sent to rescue 
thee from the western seafarer who had clawed thee 
in his tarry clutch. Thou didst act the sister’s part 
passing well. I hear my Lord and all his meirU have 
been sitting, open-mouthed, hearkening to his tales of 
savages and cannibals.” 

“ 0 madam, he told us of such lovely isles,” said 
Cis. “ The sea, he said, is blue, bluer than we can 
conceive, with white waves of dazzling surf, breaking 
on islands fringed with white shells and coral, and 
with palms, their tops like the biggest ferns in the 
brake, and laden with red golden fruit as big as 
goose eggs. And the birds ! 0 madam, my mother, 

the birds ! They are small, small as our butterflies 
and beetles, and they hang hovering and quivering 
over a flower so that Humfrey thought they were 
moths, for he saw nothing but a whizzing and a whirr- 
ing tdl he smote the pretty thing dead, and then he 
said that I should have wept for pity, for it was a 
little bird with a long bill, and a breast that shines 


THE EBBING WELL. 


233 


xvil] 

red in one light, purple in another, and flame-coloured 
in a third. He has brought home the little skin and 
feathers of it for me.” 

“ Thou hast supped full of travellers’ tales, my 
simple child.” 

“ Yea, madam, but my Lord listened, and made 
Humfrey sit beside him, and made much of him — my 
Lord himself ! I would fain bring him to you, madam. 
It is so wondrous to hear him tell of the Eed Men 
with crowns of feathers and belts of beads. Such 
gentle savages they be, and their chiefs as courteous 
and stately as any of our princes, and yet those cruel 
Spaniards make them slaves and force them to dig in 
mines, so that they die and perish under their hands.” 

“ And better so than that they should not come to 
the knowledge of the faith,” said Mary. 

“ I forgot that your Grace loves the Spaniards, ' 
said Cis, much in the tone in which she might hav^e 
spoken of a taste in her Grace for spiders, adders, or 
any other noxious animal. 

“ One day my child will grow out of her little 
heretic prejudices, and learn to love her mother’s staunch 
friends, the champions of Holy Church, and the repre- 
sentatives of true knighthood in these degenerate days. 
Ah, child ! couldst thou but see a true Spanish Cabal- 
lero, or again, could I but show tliee my noble cousin of 
Guise, then wouldst thou know how to rate these gross 
clownish English mastiffs who now turn thy silly little 
brain. Ah, that thou couldst once meet a true prince !” 

“ The well,” murmured Cicely. 

“ Tush, child,” said the Queen, amused. “ What 
of that ? Thy name is not Cis, is it ? ’Tis only the 
slougli that serves thee for the nonce. The good youth 
will find himself linked to some homely, housewifely 


234 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOIiY. 


[chap 

Cis ill due time, when the Princess Bride is queening 
it in France or Austria, and will own that the well was 
wiser than he.” 

Poor Cis ! If her inmost heart declared Humfrey 
Talbot to be prince enough for her, she durst not enter- 
tain the sentiment, not knowing whether it were un- 
worthy, and while Marie de Courcelles read aloud a 
French legend of a saint to soothe the Queen to sleep, 
she lay longing after the more sympathetic mother, and 
wondering what was passing in the haU. 

Eichard Talbot had communed with his wife’s eyes, 
and made up his mind that Humfrey should know the 
full truth before the Queen should enjoin his being put 
off with the story of the parentage she had invented 
for Bride Hepburn ; and while some of the gentlemen 
followed their habit of sitting late over the wine cup, 
he craved their leave to have his son to himself a little 
while, and took him out in the summer twilight on the 
greensward, going through the guards, for whom he, as 
the gentleman warder, had the password of the night. 
In compliment to the expedition of the day it had been 
made “ True love and the Flowing Well.” It sounded 
agreeable in Humfrey’s ears; he repeated it again, and 
then added “ Little Cis ! she hath come to woman’s 
estate, and she hath caught some of the captive lady’s 
pretty tricks of the head and hands. How long hath 
she been so thick with her ?” 

“ Since this journey. I have to speak with thee, my 
son.” 

“ I wait your pleasure, sir,” said Humfrey, and as 
hi& father paused a moment ere communicating his 
strange tidings, he rendered the matter less easy by 
saying, “ I guess your purpose. If I may at once wed 
my little Cis I wiU send word to Sir John Norreys that 


THE EBBING WELL. 


235 


XVII.] 

I am not for this expedition to the Low Countries, 
though there is good and manly work to be done there, 
and I have the offer of a command, but I gave not 
my word till I knew your will, and whether we might 
wed at once.” 

“ Thou hast much to hear, my son.” 

“Nay, surely no one has come between!” ex- 
claimed Humfrey. “ Methought she was less frank 
and more coy than of old. If that sneaking traitor 
Babington hath been making up to her I will slit his 
false gullet for him.” 

“ Hush, hush, Humfrey ! thy seafaring boasts skill 
not here. No man hath come between thee and 
yonder poor maid.” 

“ Poor I You mean not that she is sickly. Were 
she so, I would so tend her that she should be well for 
mere tenderness. But no, she was the very image of 
health. No man, said you, father ? Then it is a 
woman. Ah ! my Lady Countess is it, bent on making 
her match her own way ? Sir, you are too good and 
upright to let a tyrannous dame like that sever 
between us, though she be near of kin to us. My 
mother might scruple to cross her, but you have seen 
the world, sir.” 

“ My lad, you are right in that it is a woman who 
stands between you and Cis, but it is not the Countess. 
None would have the right to do so, save the maiden’s 
own mother.” 

‘ Her mother ! You have discovered her lineage ! 
Can she have ought against me ? — I, your son, sir, of 
the Talbot blood, and not ill endowed ? ” 

“ Alack, son, the Talbot may be a good dog, but the 
lioness will scarce esteem him her mate. Piddles 
apart, it is proved beyond question that our little maid 


236 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [oHAP. 

is of Lirth as high as it is unhappy. Thou canst he 
secret, I know, Humfrey, and thou must he silent as 
the grave, f jr it touches my honour and the poor child’s 
liberty.” 

“ Who is she, then ?” demanded Humfrey sharply. 

His father pointed to the Queen’s window. Hum* 
frey stared at him, and muttered an ejaculation, then 
exclaimed, “ How and when was this known ?” 

Eichard went over the facts, giving as few names 
as possible, while his son stood looking down and 
drawing lines with the point of his sword, 

“ I hoped,” ended the father, “ that these five years’ 
absence might have made thee forget* thy childish 
inclination and as Humfrey, without raising his face, 
emphatically shook his head, he went on to add — “ So, 
my dear son, meseemeth that there is no remedy, but 
that, for her peace and thine own, thou shouldest accept 
this offer of brave Horreys, and by the time tlie 
campaign is ended, they may be both safe in Scotland, 
out of reach of vexing thy heart, my poor boy.” 

“ Is it so sure that her royal lineage will be 
owned ?” muttered Humfrey. “ Out on me for saying 
so ! But sure this lady hath made light enough of her 
wedlock with yonder villain.” 

“ Even so, but that was when she deemed its 
offspring safe beneath the waves. I fear me that, how- 
ever our poor damsel be regarded, she will be treated 
as a mere bait and tool. If not bestowed on some 
foreign prince (and there hath been talk of dukes and 
archdukes), she may serve to tickle the pride of some 
Scottish thief, such as was her father.” 

“ Sir ! sir ! how can you speak patiently of such 
profanation and cruelty ? Papist butchers and Scottish 
thieves, for the child of your hearth ! Were it not 


THE EBBING WELL. 


237 


.mi.] 

better that I stole her safely away and wedded her in 
secret, so that at least she might have an honest 
husband ?” 

“ Nay, his honesty would scarce be thus manifest,” 
said Eichard, “ even if the maid would consent, which 
I think she would not. Her head is too full of her 
new greatness to have room for thee, my poor lad. 
Best that thou shouldest face the truth. And, verily, 
what is it but her duty to obey her mother, her true 
and veritable mother, Humfrey ? It is but making her 
case harder, and adding to her griefs, to strive- to 
awaken any inclination she may have had for thee ; 
and therefore it is that I counsel thee, nay, I 
might command thee, to absent thyself while it is still 
needful that she remain with us, passing for our 
daughter.” 

Humfrey still traced lines with his sword in the 
dust. He had always been a strong-willed though an 
obedient and honourable boy, and his father felt that 
these five years had made a man of him, whom, in 
spite of mediaeval obedience, it was not easy to dispose 
of arbitrarily. 

“ There’s no haste,” he muttered. “ Norreys will 
not go tiU my Lord of Leicester’s commission be made 
out. It is five years since I was at home.” 

“ My son, thou knowest that I would not send thee 
from me willingly. I had not done so ere now, but 
that it was well for thee to know the world and men, 
and Sheffield is a mere nest of intrigue and falsehood, 
where even if one keeps one’s integrity, it is hard to be 
believed. But for my Lord, thy mother, and my poor 
folk, I would gladly go with thee to strike honest 
downright blows at a foe I could see and feel, rather 
than be notlnng better than a warder, and be driven 


238 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

distracted with women’s tongues. Why, they have 
even set division between my Lord and his son Gilbert, 
who was ever tlie dearest to him. Young as he is, 
methinks Diccon would be better away with thee than 
where the very air smells of plots and lies.” 

“ 1 trow the Queen of Scots will not be here much 
longer,” said Humfrey. “ Men say in London that Sir 
Half Sadler is even now setting forth to take charge of 
her, and send my Lord to London.” 

We have had such hopes too often, my son,” said 
Eichard. “ Nay, she hath left us more than once, but 
always to fall back upon Sheffield like a weight to the 
ground. But she is full of hope in her son, now that 
he is come of age, and hath put to death her great foe 
the Earl of Morton.” 

“ The poor lady might as well put her faith in — 
in a jelly-fish,” said Humfrey, falling on a comparison 
perfectly appreciated by the old sailor. 

“ Hell ? She will get naught but stings. How 
kiiowest thou ?” 

“ Wliy, do none know here that King James is in 
the hands of him they call tlie Master of Gray?” 

“ Queen Mary puts in him her chief hope.” 

“ Then she hath indeed grasped a jelly-fish. Know 
you not, father, those proud and gay ones, with rose- 
coloured bladders and long blue beards — blue as the 
azure of a herald’s coat ?” 

“ Ay, marry I do. I remember when I was a lad, 
in my first voyage, laying hold on one. I warrant 
you I danced about till I was nearly overboard, and 
my arm was as big as two for three days later. Is 
tlie fellow of that sort ? The false Scot.” 

“Look you, father, I met in London that same 
Johnstone who was one of this lady’s gentlemen at 


THE EBBING WELL. 


239 


XVII.] 

i)ne time. You remember him. He breakfasted at 
Bridgefield one 3 or twice ere the watch became more 
strict.” 

“ Yea, I remember him. He was an honest fellow 
for a Scot.” 

“ When he made out that I was the little lad he 
remembered, he was very courteous, and desired his 
commendations to you and to my mother. He had 
been in Scotland, and had come south in the train of 
this rogue. Gray. I took him to see the old Pelican, 
and we had a breakfast aboard there. He asked much 
after his poor Queen, whom he loves as much as ever, 
and when he saw I was a man he could trust, your 
true sou, he said that he saw less hope for her than 
ever in Scotland — her friends have been slain or 
exiled, and the young generation that has grown up 
have learned to dread her like an incarnation of the 
scarlet one of Babylon. Their preachers would hail her 
as Satan loosed on them, and the nobles dread nothing 
so much as being made to disgorge the lands of the 
Crown and the Church, on which they are battening. 
As to her son, he was fain enough to break forth from 
one set of tutors, and the messages of France and Spain 
tickled his fancy — but he is nought. He is crammed 
with scholarship, and not without a shrewd apprehen- 
sion ; but, wdth respect be it spoken, more the stuff 
that court fools are made of than kings. It may be, 
as a learned man told Johnstone, that the shock the 
Queen suffered when the brutes put Davy to death 
before her eyes, three months ere his birth, hath dam- 
aged his constitution, for he is at the mercy of whoso- 
ever chooses to lead him, and hath no will of his own. 
This Master of Gray was at first inclined to the 
Queen’s party, thinking more might be got by a reversal 


240 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [cHAP. 

of all things, but now he finds the king’s men so strong 
in the saddle, and the Queen’s French kindred like to 
be too busy at home to aid her, what doth he do, but 
list to our Queen’s offers, and this ambassage of hi.s 
which hath a colour of being for Queen Mary’s release, 
is verily to make terms with my Lord Treasurer and 
Sir Francis Walsingham for the pension he is to have 
for keeping his king in the same mind.” 

“Turning a son against a mother! I marvel that 
honourable counsellors can bring themselves to the 
like.” 

“ Policy, sir, policy,” said Humfrey. “ And this 
Gray maketh a fine show of chivalry and honour, in- 
somuch that Sir Philip Sidney himself hath desired his 
friendship ; but, you see, the poor lady is as far from 
freedom as she was when first she came to Sheffield.” 

“ She is very far from believing it, poor dame. I 
am sorry for her, Humfrey, more sorry than I ever 
thought I could be, now I have seen more of her. 
My Lord himself says he never knew her break a 
promise. How gracious she is there is no telling.” 

“ That we always knew,” said Humfrey, looking 
somewhat amazed, that his honoured father should 
have fallen under the spell of the “ siren between the 
cold earth and moon.” 

“ Yes, gracious, and of a wondrous constancy of 
mind, and evenness of temper,” said Eichard. “ Now 
that thy mother and I have watched her more closely, 
we can testify that, weary, worn, and sick of body and 
of heart as she is, she never letteth a bitter or a chid- 
ing word pass her lips towards her servants. She hath 
nothing to lose by it. Their fidelity is proven. They 
would stand by her to the last, use them as she would( 
but assuredly their love must be doubly bound up in 


THE EBBING WELIi. 


241 


XVII.] 

her when they see Ikjw she regardeth them before her- 
self. Let what will be said of her, son Humfrey, I 
shall always maintain that I never saw woman, save 
thine own good mother, of such evenness of condition, 
and sweetness of consideration for all about her, ay, 
and patience in adversity, such as. Heaven forbid, 
tliy mother should ever know.” 

“ Amen, and verily amen,” said Humfrey. " Deem 
you then that she hath not worked her own woe ?” 

“Nay, lad, what saith the Scripture, ‘Judge not, 
and ye shall not be judged’? How should I know 
what hath passed seventeen years back in Scotland ?” 

“Ay, but for present plots and intrigues, judge 
you her a true woman ?” 

“ Humfrey, thou hadst once a fox in a cage. When 
it found it vain to dash against the bars, rememberest 
tliou how it scratched away the earth in the rear, and 
*^hen sat over the hole it had made, lest we should see 

it?” 

“ The fox, say you, sir ? Then you cannot call her 
ought but false.” 

“ They tell me,” said Sir Eichard, “ that ever since an 
Italian named Machiavel wrote his Book of the Prince, 
statecraft hath been craft indeed, and princes suck in 
deceit with the very air they breathe. Ay, boy, it is 
what chiefly vexes me in the whole. I cannot doubt 
that she is never so happy as when there is a plot or 
scheme toward, not merely for her own freedom, but 
the utter overthrow of our own gracious Sovereign, 
who, if she hath kept this lady in durance, hath 
shielded her from her own bloodthirsty subjects. And 
for dissembling, I never saw her equal. Yet she, as 
thy mother tells me, is a pious and devout woman, whc 
bears her troubles thus cheerfully and patiently, be* 
E 


242 


UNKNOWN TO IIISTOliV. 


[cfLvr. 

cause she deems them a martyrdom for her religion 
Ay, all women are riddles, they say, hut this one the 
most of all !” 

“Thinkest thou that she hath tampered with — 
with that poor maiden’s faith ? ” asked Humf] ey 
huskily. 

“ I trow not yet, my son,” replied Richard ; “ Cis is 
as open as ever to thy mother, for I cannot believe she 
hath yet learnt to dissemble, and I greatly suspect that 
the Queen, hoping to return to Scotland, may be will- 
ing to keep her a Protestant, the better to win favour 
with her brother and the lords of his council ; but if 
he be such a cur as thou sayest, all hope of honourable 
release is at an eud. So thou seest, Humfrey, how it 
lies, and how, in my judgment, to remain here is but 
to wring thine own heart, and bring the wench and 
thyself to sore straits. I lay not my commands on 
thee, a man grown, but such is my opinion on the 
matter.” 

“I will not disobey you, father,” said Hnmfrey, 
“ but suff«r me to consider the matter.” 


xvul] 


CIS 0£ SISTEB. 


243 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

CIS OK SISTER. 

Buxtona, quae calidse celebraris nomine lymphae 
Forte milii post hac non adeunda, Vale.^ 

Thus wrote Queen Mary with a diamond upon her 
window pane, smiling as she said, “ There, we will 
leave a memento over which the admirable Dr. Jones 
will gloat his philosophical soul. Never may I see 
thee more, Buxton, yet never thought I to be so happy 
as I have here been.” 

She spoke with the tenderness of farewell to the 
spot which had always been the pleasantest abode of 
the various places of durance which had been hers in 
England. Each year she had hoped would be her last 
of such visits, but on this occasion everything seemed 
to point to a close to the present state of things, since 
not only were the negotiations with Scotland appa- 
rently prosperous, but Lord Shrewsbury had obtained 
an absolute promise from Elizabeth that she would at 
all events relieve him from his onerous and expensive 
charge. Thus there was general cheerfulness, as the 
baggage was bestowed in carts and on beasts of burthen, 
and Mary, as slie stood finishing her inscription on 

^ Buxton, of whose warm waters all men tell, 

Perchance I ne’er shall see thee more. Farewell. 


244 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

the window, smiled sweetly and graciously on Mistress 
Talbot, and gave her joy of the arrival of her towardly 
and hopeful son, adding, “ We surprised him at the 
well ! May his Cis, who is yet to be found, T trow, 
reward his lealty ! ” 

That was all the notice Mary deigned to take ol 
the former relations between her daughter and young 
Talbot. She did not choose again to beg for secrecy 
when she was sure to hear that she had been fore- 
stalled, and she was too consummate a judge of 
character not to have learnt that, though she might 
despise the dogged, simple straightforwardness of 
Richard and Susan Talbot, their honour was perfectly 
trustworthy. She was able for the present to keep 
her daughter almost entirely to herself, since, on the 
return to Sheffield, the former state of things was 
resumed. The Bridgefield family was still quartered 
in the Manor-house, and Mistress Talbot continued to 
be, as it were. Lady Warder to the captive in the 
place of the Countess, who obstinately refused to 
return while Mary was still in her husband’s keeping. 
Cicely, as Mary’s acknowledged favourite, was almost 
always in her apartments, except at the meals of the 
whole company of Shrewsbury kinsfolk and retainers, 
when her place was always far removed from that of 
Ilumfrey. In truth, if ever an effort might have 
obtained a few seconds of private conversation, a 
strong sense of embarrassment and perplexity made 
the two young people fly apart rather than come 
together. They knew not what they wished. Ham- 
frey might in his secret soul long for a token that Cis 
remembered his faithful affecticm, and yet he knew 
that to elicit one might do her life-long Injury. So, 
however he might crave for word or look when out of 


XVIII.] CIS OR SISTER. 245 

sight of her, an honourable reluctance always withheld 
him from seeking any such sign in the short intervals 
when he could have tried to go beneath the surface. 
On the other hand, this apparent indifference piqued 
lier pride, and made her stiff, cold, and almost dis- 
dainful whenever there was any approach between 
thtm. Her vanity might be flattered by the know- 
ledge that she was beyond his reach ; but it would 
have been stUl more gratified could she have dis- 
covered any symptoms of pining and languishing after 
her. She might peep at him from under her eye- 
lashes in chapel and in hall ; but in the former place 
his gaze always seemed to be on the minister, in the 
latter he showed no signs of flagging as a trencher 
companion. Both mothers thought her marvellously 
discreet ; but neither beheld the strange tumult in her 
heart, where were surging pride, vanity, ambition, and 
wounded affection. 

In a few days. Sir Ealf Sadler and his son-in-law Mr. 
Somer arrived at Sheffield in order to take the charge 
of the prisoner whilst Shrewsbury went to London. 
The c inferences and consultations were endless and 
harassing, and it was finally decided that the Earl 
should escort her to Wingfield, and, leaving her there 
under charge of Sadler, should proceed to London. 
She made formal application for Mistress Cicely Talbot 
to accompany her as one of her suite, and her sup- 
posed parents could not but give their consent, but 
six gentlewomen had been already enumerated, and 
the authorities would not consent to her taking iny 
moie ladies with her, and decreed that Mistress Cicely 
must remain at home. 

“This imkindness has made the parting from this 
place less joyous than I looked for,” said Mary, “ but 


246 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[CHAl*. 

courage, ma mignonTie. Soon shall I send for thee to 
Scotland, and there shalt thou burst thine husk, and 
show thyself in thy true colours;” and turning to 
Susan, “ Madam, I must commit my treasure to her 
who has so long watched over her.” 

“ Your Grace knows that she is no less my treasure,” 
said Susan. 

“ I should have known it well,” returned the 
Queen, “from the innocence and guQelessness of the 
damsel. None save such a mother as Mistress Talbot 
could have made her what she is. Credit me, madam, 
I have looked well into her heart, and found nought 
to undo there. You have bred her up better than her 
poor mother could have done, and I gladly entrust her 
once more to your care, assured that your well-tried 
honour will keep her in mind of what she is, and to 
what she may be called.” 

“ She shall remember it, madam,” said Susan. 

“ When I am a Queen once more,” said Mary, “ all 
I can give will seem too poor a meed for what you 
have been to my child. Even as Queen of Scotland 
or England itself, my power would be small in com- 
parison with my will. My gratitude, however, no 
bounds can limit out to me.” 

And with tears of tenderness and thankfulness she 
kissed the cheeks and lips of good Mistress Talbot, 
who could not but likewise weep for the mother thus 
compelled to part with her child. 

The night was partly spent in caresses and promises 
of the brilliant reception preparing in Scotland, with 
auguries of the splendid marriage in store, with a 
Prince of Lorraine, or even with an Archduke. 

Cis was still young enough to dream of such a lot 
as an opening to a fairy land of princely glories. If 


XVIII,] CIS OR SISliiR. 247 

her mother knew better, she still looked tenderly back 
on her beau fays de France with that halo of brightness 
which is formed only in childhood and youth. Moreover, 
it might be desirable to enhance such aspiration as might 
best secure the young princess from anything derogatory 
to her real rank, while she was strongly warned against 
betraying it, and especially against any assumption of 
dignity should she ever hear of her mother’s release, 
reception, and recognition in Scotland. For whatever 
might be the maternal longings, it would be needful to 
feel the way and prepare the ground for the acknow- 
ledgment of Bothwell’s daughter in Scotland, while 
the knowledge of her existence in England would 
almost surely lead to her being detained as a hostage. 
She likewise warned the maiden never to regard any 
letter or bUlet from her as fully read till it had been 
held — without witnesses — to the fire. 

Of Humfrey Talbot, Queen Mary scorned to say 
anything, or to utter a syllable that she thought a 
daughter of Scotland needed a warning against a 
petty English sailor. Indeed, she had confidence that 
the youth’s parents would view the attachment as 
quite as undesirable for him as for the young princess, 
and would guard against it for his sake as much as for 
hers. 

The true parting took place ere tlie household was 
astir. Afterwards, Mary, fully equipped for travelling, 
in a dark cloth riding-dress and hood, came across to the 
great hall of the Manor-house, and there sat while each 
one of tlie attendants filed in procession, as it were, before 
her. To each lady she presented some small token 
wre light by her own hands. To each gentleman she 
also gave some trinket, such as the elaborate dress of 
the time permitted, and to each serving man or maid a 


248 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

piece of money. Of each one she gravely hut gentlj 
be.'30ught pardon for all the displeasures or offences she 
might have caused them, and as they replied, kissing 
her hand, many of them with tears, she returned a kiss 
on the brow to each woman and an entreaty to be re- 
membered in their prayers, and a like request, with a 
pressure of the hand, to each man or boy. 

It must have been a tedious ceremony, and yet to 
every one it seemed as if Mary put her whole heart 
into it, and to any to whom she owed special thanks 
they were freely paid. 

The whole was only over by an hour before noon. 
Then she partook of a manchet and a cup of wine, 
drinking, with liquid eyes, to the health and prosperity 
of her good host, and to the restoration of his family 
peace, which she had so sorely, though unwittingly, 
disturbed. 

Then she let him hand her out, once more kissins 
Susan Talbot and Cis, who was weeping bitterly, and 
whispering to the latter, “ Not over much grief, ma 
'petite ; not more than may befit, migno'nne.'' 

Lord Shrewsbury lifted her on her horse, and, with 
him on one side and Sir Ealf Sadler on the other, she 
rode down the long avenue on her way to Wingfield. 

The Bridgefield family had already made their 
arrangements, and their horses were waiting for them 
amid the jubilations of Diccon and Ned. The Queen 
had given each of them a fair jewel, with special 
thanks to them for being good brothers to her dear 
Cis. “ As if one wanted thanks for being good to 
one’s own sister,” said Ned, thrusting the delicate little 
ruby brooch on his mother to be taken care of till his 
days of foppery should set in, and he would need ii 
for cap and plume. 


XVIII.] CIS OR SISTER. 249 

“ Come, Cis, we are going home at last,” said 
Diccon. " What ! thou art not breaking thine heart 
over yonder Scottish lady — when we are going home, 
home, I say, and have got rid of watch and ward for 
ever ? Hurrah !” and he threw up his cap, and was 
joined in the shout by more than one of the youngsters 
around, for Eichard and most of the elders were 
escorting the Queen out of the park, and Mistress Susan 
had been summoned on some question of household 
stuff. Cis, however, stood leaning against the balus- 
trade, over which she had leant for the last glance 
exchanged with her mother, her face hidden in her 
hands and kerchief, weeping bitterly, feeling as if all 
the giory and excitement of ’the last few weeks had 
vanished as a dn^^m and left her to the dreary dul- 
ness of common life, as little insignificant Cis Talbot 
again. 

It was Humfrey who first came near, almost timidly 
touched her hand, and said, “ Cheer up. It is but for 
a little while, mayhap. She will send for thee. 
Come, here is thine old palfrey — poor old Dapple. 
Let me put tliee on him, and for this brief time let us 
feign that all is as it was, and thou art my little sister 
once more.” 

“ I know not which is truth and which is dreaming,” 
said Cis, waking up through her tears, but resigning 
her hand to him, and letting him lift her to her seat 
on the old pony which had been the playfellow of both. 

If it had been an effort to Humfrey to prolong the 
word Cis into sister, he was rewarded for it. It gave 
the key-note to their intercourse, and set her at ease 
with him ; and the idea that her present rustication 
was but a comedy instead of a reality was consoling in 
her present frame of mind. Mistress Susan, surrounded 


250 UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. [CHAP. 

with importunate inquirers as to household matters, 
and unable to escape from them, could only see that 
Humfrey had taken charge of the maiden, and trusted 
to his honour and his tact. This was, however, only 
the beginning of a weary and perplexing time. Nothing 
could restore Cis to her old place in the Bridgefield 
household, or make her look upon its tasks, cares, and 
joys as she had done only a few short months ago. 
Her share in them could only be acting, and she was too 
artless and simple to play a part. Most frequently she 
was listless, dull, and pining, so much inclined to despise 
and neglect the ordinary household occupations which 
befitted the daughter of the family, that her adopted 
mother was forced, for the sake of her incognito, to 
rouse, and often to scold her when any witnesses were 
present who would have thought Mrs. Talbot’s toleration 
of such conduct in a daughter suspicious and unnatural. 

Such reproofs were dangerous in another way, for 
Humfrey could not bear to hear them, and w^as driven 
nearly to the verge of disrespect and perilous approaches 
to implying that Cis was no ordinary person to be 
sharply reproved when she sat musing and sighing 
instead of sewing Diccon’s shirts. 

Even the father himself could not well brook to 
hear the girl blamed, and both he and Humfrey could 
not help treating her with a kind of deference that 
made the younger brothers gape and wonder what had 
come to Humfrey on his travels “ to make him treat 
our Cis as a born princess.” 

“You irreverent varlets,” said Humfrey, “ you have 
yet to learn that every woman ought to be treated as 
a born princess.” 

“ By cock and pie,” said spoilt Ned, “ that beats 
all ! One’s own sister 1” 


XVIII.] CIS OK SISTER. 251 

Whereupon H i .mfrey had the opportunity of vent* 
ing a little of his vexation by thrashing his brother for 
his oath, while sharp Diccon innocently asked if men 
never swore by anything when at sea, and thereby 
nearly got another castigation for irreverent mocking 
of his elder brother’s discipline. 

At other times the girl’s natural activity and high 
spirits gained the upper hand, and she would abandon 
herself without reserve to the old homely delights of 
Bridgefield. At the apple gathering, she was running 
about, screaming with joy, and pelting the boys with 
apples, more as she had done at thirteen than at 
seventeen, and when called to order she inconsistently 
pleaded, “ Ah, mother ! it is for the last time. Do but 
let me have my swing !” putting on a wistful and 
caressing look, which Susan did not withstand when 
the only companions were the three brothers, since 
Mumfrey had much of her own unselfishness and self- 
command, resulting in a discretion that was seldom 
at fault. 

And that discretion made him decide at a fortnight’s 
end that his father had been right, and that it would 
be better for him to absent himself from where he 
could do no good, but only added to the general per- 
plexity, and involved himself in the temptation of 
betraying the affection he knew to be hopeless. 

Before, however, it was possible to fit out either 
Diccon or the four men who were anxious to go under 
the leadership of Master Humfrey of Bridgefield, the 
Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury were returning fully 
reconciled. Queen Elizabeth had made the Caven- 
dishes ask pardon on their knees of the Earl for their 
slanders ; and he, in his joy, had freely forgiven all. 
Gilbert Talbot and his wife had shared in the general 


252 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

reconciliation. His elder brother’s death had made 
him the heir apparent, and all were coming home 
again, including the little Lady Arbell, once more to fill 
the Castle and the Manor-house, and to renew the free 
hospitable life of a great feudal chief, or of the Queen’s 
old courtier, with doors wide open, and no ward or 
suspicion. 

Piichard rejoiced that his sons, before going abroad, 
should witness the return to the old times which had 
been at an end before they could remember Sheffield 
distinctly. The whole family were drawn up as usual 
to receive them, when the Earl and Countess arrived 
first of all at the Manor-house, 

The Countess looked smaller, thinner, older, per- 
haps a trifle more shrewish, but she had evidently 
suffered much, and was very glad to have recovered 
her husband and her home. 

“ So, Susan Talbot,” was her salutation, “ you have 
thriven, it seems. You have been playing the part of 
hostess, I hear.” 

“ Only so far as might serve his Lordship, madam.” 

“ And the wench, there, what call you her ? Ay, 
Cicely. I hear the Scottish Queen hath been cocker- 
ing her up and making her her bedfellow, till she hath 
spoilt her for a reasonable maiden. Is it so ? She 
looks it.” 

“ I trust not, madam,” said Susan. 

“ She grows a strapping wench, and we must' find 
her a good husband to curb her pride. I have a young 
man already in my eye for her.” 

“So please your Ladyship, we do not think of 
marrying her as yet,” returned Susan, in consternation. 

“ Tilly vally, Susan Talbot, tell me not such folly 
as that. Why, the maid is over s(iventeen at the very 


CIS OR SISTER. 


253 


xviil] 

least ! Save for all the coil this Scottish -woman and 
her crew have made, I should have seen her well 
mated a year ago.” 

Here was a satisfactory prospect for Mistress Susan, 
bred as she had been to unquestioning submission to 
the Countess. There was no more to be said on that 
occasion, as the great lady passed on to bestow her 
notice on others of her little court. 

Humfrey meantime had been warmly greeted by 
the younger men of the suite, and one of them 
handed him a letter which filled him with eagerness. 
It was from an old shipmate, who wrote, not without 
sanction, to inform him that Sir Francis Drake was 
fitting out an expedition, with the full consent of the 
Queen, to make a descent upon the Spaniards, and that 
there was no doubt that if he presented himself at 
Plymouth, he would obtain either the command, or at 
any rate the lieutenancy, of one of the numerous ships 
which were to be commissioned. Humfrey was before 
all else a sailor. He had made no engagement to Sir 
John Norreys, and many of the persons engaged on 
this expedition were already kno-vm to him. It was 
believed that the attack was to be upon Spain itself, 
and the notion filled him with ardour and excitement 
that almost drove Cicely out of his mind, as he laid 
the proposal before his father. 

Eichard was scarcely less excited. “You young 
lads are in luck,” he said. “ I sailed for years and 
never had more than a chance brush with the Don ; 
never the chance of bearding him on his own shores !” 

“ Come with us, then, father,” entreated Humfrey. 
“Sir Francis would be overjoyed to see you. You 
would get the choicest ship to your share.” 

“ Nay, nay, my boy, tempt me not ; I cannot leave 


254 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

your mother to meet all the coils that may fall in hei 
way ! No ; I’m too old. I’ve lost my sea legs. 1 
leave thee to win the fame, son Humfrey!” 

The decision was thus made, and Humfrey and 
Diccon were to start together for London first, and then 
for Plymouth, the second day after a great festival for 
tilt wedding of the little Alethea, daughtei’ of Gilbert, 
Lord Talbot — still of very tender age — to the young 
heir of Arundel. The Talbot family had been pre- 
cluded from holding festival for full fourteen years, 
or indeed from entertaining any guests, save the Com- 
missioners sent down to confer from time to time with 
the captive Queen, so that it was no wonder that they 
were in the highest possible spirits at their release, and 
determined to take the first opportunity of exercising 
the gorgeous hospitality of the Tudor times. 

Posts went out, riding round all the neighbourhood 
with invitations. The halls were sw^ept and adorned 
with the best suit of hangings. All the gentlemen, 
young and old, all the keepers and verdiirers, were put 
in requisition to slaughter all the game, quadruped and 
biped, that fell in their way, the village women and 
children were turned loose on the blackberries, cran- 
berries, and bilberries, and all the ladies and serving- 
women w^ere called on to concoct pasties of many stories 
high, subtilties of wonderful curiosity, sweetmeats and 
comfits, cakes and marchpanes worthy of Camacho’s 
wedding, or to deck the halls wdth green boughs, and 
weave garlands of heather and red berries. 

Cis absolutely insisted, so that the heads of the 
household gave way, on riding out with Eichard and 
Humfrey when they had a buck to mark down in 
Uivelin Chase. And she set her heart on going out to 
gather cranberries in the park, flinging herself about 


CIS OR SISTER. 


255 


k.viil] 

with petulant irritation when Dame Susan showed 
herself unwilling to permit a proceeding which was 
thought scarcely becoming in any well-born damsel of 
Uie period. “Ah, child, child! thou wilt have to 
bear worse restraints than tliese,” she said, “if evei 
thou comest to thy greatness.” 

Cis made no answer, but threw herself into a chaii 
and pouted. 

The next morning she did not present herself at the 
usual hour; but just as the good mother was about to 
go in quest of her to her chamber, a clear voice came 
singing up the valley— 

“ Berries to sell ! berries to sell ! 

Berries fresh from moorland fell!” 

And there stood a girl in peasant dress, with short 
petticoats, stout shoes soaked in dew, a round face 
under black brows, and cheeks glowing in morning 
freshness; and a boy swung the other handle of the 
basket overflowing with purple berries. 

It was but a shallow disguise betrayed by the two 
roguish faces, and tlie good mother was so pleased to 
see Cis smile merrily again, that she did not scold over 
the escapade. 

Yet the inconsistent girl hotly refused to go up to 
the castle and help to make pastry for her mother’s 
bitter and malicious foe, and Sir Eichard shook his head 
and said si e was in the right on’t, and should not be 
compelled. So Susan found herself making lame 
excuses, which did not avert a sharp lecture from the 
(.lount as on the cockering of her daughter. 


266 


UNKNOWN XO HISTOfiY. 


[chap 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE CLASH OF SWORDS. 

Festivals in the nnddle ages were conducted by day 
rather than by night, and it was a bright noonday sun 
that shone upon the great hall at Sheffield, bedecked 
with rich tapestry around the dais, where the floor was 
further spread with Eastern carpets. Below, the 
garniture of the walls was of green boughs, interspersed 
between stag’s antlers, and the floor was strewn, in 
ancient fashion, with the fragrant rush. 

All the tables, however, were spread with pure 
white napery, the difference being only in texture, but 
the higher table rejoiced in the wonderful extravagance 
of silver plates, while the lower had only trenchers. 
As to knives, each guest brought his or her own, and 
forks were not yet, but bread, in long fingers of crust, 
was provided to a large amount to supply the want. 
Splendid salt-cellars, towering as landmarks to the 
various degrees of guests, tankards, gilt and parcel gilt 
or shining with silver, perfectly swarmed along the 
board, and the meanest of the guests present drank 
from silver-rimmed cups of horn, while for the very 
greatest were reserved the tall, slender, opal Venice 
glasses, recently purchased by the Countess in London. 

The pies, the glory of Yorkshire, surpassed them- 


XIX.] 


THE CLASH OF SWOHDS. 


257 


selves. The young bride and bridegroom had the 
felicity of contemplating one whose crust was elevated 
into the altar of Hymen, with their own selves united 
thereat, attended by numerous Cupids, made chiefly in 
paste and sugar, and with little wings from the 
feathers of the many slaughtered fowl within. As to 
the jellies, the devices and the subtilties, the pen re- 
fuses to describe them! It will be enough to say that 
the wedding itself was the least part of the entertain- 
ment. It was gone through with very few spectators 
in the early morning, and the guests only assembled 
afterwards to this mighty dinner at a somewhat earlier 
hour than they would now to a wedding breakfast. 
The sewer marshalled all the guests in pairs according 
to their rank, having gone through the roll with his 
mistress, just as the lady of the house or her aide-de- 
camp pairs the guests and puts cards in their plates in 
modern times. Every one was there who had any 
connection with the Earl ; and Cis, though flashes of 
recollection of her true claims would come across her 
now and then, was unable to keep from being eager 
about her first gaiety. Perhaps the strange life she 
had led at Buxton, as it receded in the distance, 
became more and more unreal and shadowy, and 
slie was gi'owing back into the simple Cicely she had 
always believed herself. It was with perfectly girlish 
natural pleasure that she donned the delicate sky-blue 
farthingale, embroidered with white lilies by the slvilful 
hands of the captive Queen, and the daintily-fashioned 
little cap of Flanders lace, and practised the pretty 
dancing steps which the Queen had amused herself with 
teaching her long ere they knew they were mother and 
daughter. 

As Talbots, the Bridgefield family were spectators 
s 


258 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

of the wedding, after which, one hy one, the seneschal 
paired ;hem off. Eichard was called awa}' first, then 
a huge old Yorkshire knight came and bore away 
Mrs. Susan, and after an interval, duriiig which the 
young people entertained hopes of keeping together in 
enviable obscurity, the following summons to the board 
was heard in a loud voice — 

“ Master Antony Babington, Esquire, of Dethick ! 
Mistress Cicely Talbot, of Bridgefield.” 

Humfrey’s brow grew dark with disappointment, 
but cleared into a friendly greeting, as there advanced 
a tall, slender gentleman, of the well known fair, pink 
and white colouring, and yellow hair, apparelled point 
device in dark green velvet, with a full delicately 
crimped ruff, bowing low as he extended his hand to 
take that of the young lady, exchanging at the same 
time a friendly greeting with his old comrade, before 
leading Cis to her place. 

On the whole, she was pleased. TUe-k-UUs with 
Humfrey were dreadfully embarrassing, and she felt life 
so flat without her nocturnal romance that she was 
very glad to have some one who would care to talk to 
lier of the Queen. In point of fact, such conversation 
was prohibited. In the former days, when there had 
been much more intercourse between the Earl’s house- 
hold and the neighbourhood, regular cautions had been 
given to every member of it not to discuss the prisoner 
or make any communication about her habits. The 
younger generation who had grown up in the time of 
the closer captivity had never been instructed in these 
laws, for the simple reason that they hardly saw any one. 
Antony and Cicely were likewise most comfortably 
isolated, for she was flanked by a young esquire, who 
had no eyes nor ears save for the fair widow of sixteen 


XIX.] 


THE CLASH OF SWOKDS. 


259 


whom he had just led in, and Antony, by a' fat and 
deaf lady, whose only interest was in tasting as many 
varieties of good cheer as she could, and trying to 
discover how and of what they were compounded. 
Knowing Mistress Cicely to be a member of the family, 
she once or twice referred the question to her across 
Antony, but getting very little satisfaction, she gave up 
the young lady as a bad specimen of housewifery, and 
was forced to be content with her own inductions. 

There was plenty of time for Antony to begin with, 
“Are there as many conies as ever in the chase ?” and 
to begin on a discussion of all the memories connected 
with the free days of childhood, the blackberry and 
bilberry gatherings, the hide-and-seek in the rocks and 
heather, the consternation when little Dick was lost, 
the audacious comedy with the unsuspected spectators, 
and all the hundred and one recollections, less memor- 
able perhaps, but no less delightful to both. It was 
only thus gradually that they approached tlieir recent 
encounter in the Castleton Cavern, and Antony ex- 
plained how he had burnt to see his dear Queen and 
mistress once again, and that his friends, Tichborne and 
the rest, were ready to kiss every footstep she had 
taken, and almost worshipped him and John Eyre for 
contriving this mode of letting them behold the hitherto 
unknown object of their veneration. 

All that passionate, chivalrous devotion, which in 
Sidney, Spenser, and many more attached itself to their 
great Gloriana, had in these young men, all either 
secretly or openly reconciled to Eome, found its object 
in that rival in whom Edmund Spenser only beheld 
his false Duessa or snowy Elorimel. And, indeed, 
romance had in her a congenial heroine, who needed 
little self-blinding so to appear. Her beauty needed 


260 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CIIAP. 

no illusion to be credited. Even at her age. now ovei 
forty, the glimpse they had had in the fitful torchlight 
of the cavern had been ravishing, and had confirmed 
all they had ever heard of her witching loveliness; 
noi did they recollect how that very obscurity might 
have assisted it. 

To their convictions, she was the only legitimate 
sovereign in the island, a confessor for their beloved 
Church, a captive princess and beauty driven from her 
throne, and kept in durance by a usurper. Thus every 
generous feeling was enlisted in her cause, with nothing 
to counterbalance them save the English hatred of 
the Spaniard, with whom her cause was inextricably 
linked ; a dread of what might be inflicted on the 
country in the triumph of her party; and in some, a 
strange inconsistent personal loyalty to Elizabeth ; but 
ill these they were instructed to believe mere tempta- 
tions and delusions that ought to be brushed aside as 
cobwebs. 

Antony’s Puritan tutor at Cambridge had, as Eichard 
Talbot had foreboded, done little but add to his detesta- 
tion of the Eeformation, and he had since fallen in 
with several of the seminary priests who were circulat- 
ing in England. Some were devoted and pious men, who 
at the utmost risk went from house to house to con- 
firm the faith and constancy of the old families of 
their own communion. The saintly martyr spirit of 
one of these, whom Antony met in the house of a 
kinsman of his mother, had so wrought on him as to 
bring him heart and soul back to his mother’s pro- 
fession, in which he had been secretly nurtured in 
early childhood, and which had received additional 
confirmation at Sheffield, where Queen Mary and her 
ladies had always shown that they regarded him as one 


THE CLASH OF SWORDS. 


261 


XIX ] 

of themselves, sure to return to them when he was his 
own master. It was not, however, of this that he 
spoke to Cis. but whatever she ventured to tell him of 
the Queen was listened to with delight as an extreme 
favour, which set her tongue off with all the eager 
pleasure of a girl, telHng what she alone can tell. 

All through the banquet they talked, for Babington 
had much to ask of all the members of the household 
whom he had known. And after the feast was over 
and the hall was cleared for dancing, Antony was 
still, by etiquette, her partner for the evening. The 
young bride and bridegroom had first to perform a 
stately pavise before the whole assembly in the centre 
of the floor, in which, poor young things, they acquitted 
themselves much as if they were in the dancing- 
master’s hands. Then her father led out his mother, 
and vice versd. The bridegroom had no grandparents, 
but the stately Earl handed forth his little active wiry 
Countess, bowing over her with a grand stiff devotion 
as genuine and earnest as at their wedding twenty 
years previously, for the reconciliation had been com- 
plete, and had restored all her ascendency over him. 
Theirs, as Mistress Susan exultingly agreed with a 
Hardwicke kinsman not seen for many years, was the 
grandest and most featly of aU the performances. All 
the time each pair were performing, the others were 
awaiting their turn, the ladies in rows on benches or 
settles, the gentlemen sometimes standing before them, 
sometimes sitting on cushions or steps at their feet, 
sometimes handing them comfits of sugar or dried fruits. 

The number of gentlemen was greatly in excess, 
80 that Humfrey had no such agreeable occupation, 
but had to stand in a herd among other young men, 
watching with no gratified eye Antony Babington, in a 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


262 


[chap. 


graceful attitude at Cicely’s feet, while she conversed 
with him with untiring animation. 

Humfrey was not the only one to remark them. 
Lady Shrewsbury nodded once or twice to herself as 
one who had discovered what she sought, and the next 
morning a mandate arrived at Bridgefield that Master 
liichard and his wife should come to speak with my 
Lady Countess. 

Eichard and his son were out of reach, having 
joined a party of the guests who had gone out hunting. 
Susan had to go alone, for she wished to keep Cicely 
as much as possible out of her Ladyship’s sight, so she 
left the girl in charge of her keys, so that if father 
brought home any of the hunters to the midday meal, 
tankards and glasses might not be lacking. 

The Countess’s summons w'as to her own bowser, a 
sort of dressing-room, within her great state bed-room, 
and with a small glazed window looking down into the 
great hall where her ladies sat at work, whence she 
could on occasion call down orders or directions or 
reproofs. Susan had known what it was to stand in 
dread of such a wdndow at Chatsworth or Hardwicke, 
whence shrill shrieks of objurgation, followed sometimes 
by such missiles as pincushions, shoes, or combs. How- 
ever the window was now closed, and my Lady sat in 
her arm-chair, as on a throne, a stool being set, to 
which she motioned her kinswoman. 

“ So ! Susan Talbot,” she said, “ I have sent for you 
to do you a good turn, for you are mine own kins- 
woman of the Hardwicke blood, and have ever be<in 
reasonably humble and dutiful towards me and my 
Lord.” 

Mrs. Talbot did not by any means view this speech 
as the insult it would in these days appear to a lady 


THE CLASH OF S^A'ORDS. 


263 


XIX.] 

of her birth and position, but accepted it as the compli- 
ment it was intended to be. 

“ Thus,” continued Lady Shrewsbury, “ 1 have 
always cast about how to marry that daughter of yours 
fitly. It would have been done ere now, had not that 
Scottish woman’s tongue made mischief between me 
and my Lord, but I am come home to rule my own 
house now, and mine own blood have the first claim 
on me.” 

The alarm always excited by a summons to speak 
with my Lady Countess began to acquire definite form, 
and Susan made answer, “ Your Ladyship is very 
good, but I doubt me whether my husband desires to 
bestow Cicely in marriage as yet.” 

“ He hath surely received no marriage proposals for 
her without my knowledge or my Lord’s,” said Bess 
of Hardwicke, who was prepared to strain all feudal 
claims to the uttermost. 

“ Ho, madam, but ” 

“ Tell me not that you or he have the presumption 
to think that my son William Cavendish or even 
Edward Talbot will ever cast an eye on a mere portion- 
less country maid, not comely, nor even like the Hard- 
wickes or the Talbots. If I thought so for a moment, 
never shouldst thou darken these doors again, thou 
ungrateful, treacherous woman.” 

“ Neither of us ever had the thought, far less the 
wish,” said Susan most sincerely. 

“ Well, thou wast ever a simple woman, Susan 
Talbot,” said the great lady, thereby meaning truthful, 
so I will e’en take thy word for it, the more readily 
that I made contracts for both the lads when I was at 
court. As to Hick Talbot not being fain to bestow her, 
I trow that is because ye have spent too much on 


264 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap 

your long-legged sons to he able to lay down a portion 
for her, though she he your only daughter. Anan ?” 

For though this was quite true, Susan feeling that 
it was not the whole truth, made hut faint response. 
However, the Countess went on, expecting to over- 
power her with gratitude. “ The gentleman I mean is 
willing to take her in her smock, and moreover his 
wardship and marriage were granted to my Lord by her 
Majesty. Thou knowest whom I mean.” 

She wanted to hear a guess, and Susan actually 
foreboded the truth, but was too full of dismay and 
perplexity to do anything but shake her head as one 
puzzled. 

“What think’st thou of Mr. Babington ?” triumph- 
antly exclaimed the Countess. 

“Mr. Babington!” returned Susan. “But he is no 
longer a ward I” 

“No. We had granted his marriage to a little 
niece of my Lord Treasurer’s, but she died ere coming 
to age. Then Tom Eatcliffe’s wife would have him for 
her daughter, a mere babe. But for that thou and 
thine husband have done good service while evil 
tongues kept me absent, and because the wench comes 
of our own blood, we are willing to bestow her upon 
him, he showing himself willing and content, as befits 
a lad bred in our own household.” 

“ Madam, we are much beholden to you and my 
Lord, but sure Mr. Babington is more inclined to the 
old faith.” 

“Tush, woman, what of that? Thou mayst say 
the same of half our Northern youth ! They think it 
grand to dabble with seminary priests in hiding, and 
talk big about their conscience and the like, but when 
they’ve seen a neighbour or two pay down a heavy 


THE CLASH OF SWOEDS. 


265 


XIX.] 

fine for recusancy, they think better of it, and a good 
wife settles their brains to jog to church to hear the 
parson with the rest of them.” 

“ I fear me Cis is over young to settle any one's 
mind,’ said Susan. 

“ She is seventeen if she is a day,” said my Lady, 
* and I was a wedded wife ere I saw my teens. 
Moreover, I will say for thee, Susan, that thou hast 
breil the girl as becomes one trained in my household, 
and unless she have been spoiled by resort to the 
Scottish woman, she is like to make the lad a moder- 
ately good wife, having seen nought of the unthrifty 
modes of the fine court dames, who queen it with 
standing ruffs a foot high, and coloured with turmeric, so 
please you, but who know no more how to bake a march- 
pane, or roll puff paste, than yonder messan dog !” 

“ She is a good girl,” said Susan, “ but ” 

“What has the foolish wife to object now?” said 
the Countess. “ I tell you I marked them both last 
eve, and though I seldom turn my mind to such follies, 
I saw the plain tokens of love in every look and 
gesture of the young springald. Nay, 'twas his coun- 
tenance that put it into my mind, for I am even too 
good - natured — over good - natured, Susan Talbot. 
How now,” at some sound below, springing to the little 
window and flinging it back, “ ypu lazy idle wenches 
— what are you doing there ? Is my work to stand 
still while you are toying with you vile whelp ? He 
is tangling the yarn, don’t you see, thou purblind 
Jane Dacre, with no eyes but for ogling. There ! 
there ! Eound the leg of the chair, don’t you see 
and down flew a shoe, which made the poor dog howl, 
and his mistress catch him up. “ Put him down ! put 
him down this instant ! Thomas I Davy J Here, 


266 UNKNOWI^ TO HISTOKY. [CHAP. 

hang him up, I say,” cried this over good-natured lady, 
interspersing her commands with a volley of sixteenth 
century Billingsgate, and ending by declaring that 
nothing fared well without her, and hurrying off to 
pounce down on the luckless damsels who had lot 
their dog play with the embroidery yarn destined to 
emblazon the tapestry of Chatsworth with the achieve- 
ments of Juno. The good nature was so far veritable 
that when she found little harm done, and had vented 
her wrath in strong language and boxes on the ear, 
she would forget her sentence upon the poor little 
greyhound, which Mrs. Jane Dacre had hastily con- 
veyed out of sight during her transit downstairs. 
Susan was thus, to her great relief, released for the 
present, for guests came in before my Lady had fully 
completed her objurgations on her ladies, the hour of 
noon was nigh at hand, sounds in the court betokened 
the return of the huntsmen, and Susan effected her 
escape to her own sober old palfrey — glad that she 
would at least be able to take counsel with her hus- 
band on this most inconvenient proposition. 

He came out to meet her at the court door, having 
just dismounted, and she knew by his face that she 
had not to give him the first intelligence of the diffi- 
culty in which they stood. 

iMy Lord had himself spoken to him, like my Lady 
expecting him to be enchanted at the prospect of so 
good a match for his slenderly-portioned daughter, for 
Dethick was a fair estate, and the Babington family, 
though not ennobled, fully equal to a younger branch 
of the Talbots. However, Ei chard had had a less un- 
comfortable task than his wife, since the Earl was many 
degrees more reasonable than the Countess. He had 
shown himself somewhat offended at not meeting more 


26 ? 


XIX.] THE CLASH OF SWOKDS. 

alacrity in the acceptance of his proposal, when EicharJ 
had objected on account of the young gentleman’s 
Popish proclivities ; but boldly declared that he was 
quite certain that the stripling had been entirely cured 

This point of the narrative had just been reached 
when it was interrupted by a scream, and Cicely came 
flying into the hall, crying, " 0 father, father, stop 
them ! Humfrey and Mr. Babington ! They are 
killing one another.” 

“Where?” exclaimed Eichard, catching up his 
sword. 

“ In the Pleasance, father ! Oh, stop them ! They 
will slay one another ! They had their swords !” and 
as the father was already gone, she tlirew herself into 
the mother’s arms, hid her face and sobbed with fright 
as scarce became a princess for whom swords were for 
the first time crossed. “ Fear not ! Father will stop 
them,” said the mother, with confidence she could only 
keep up outwardly by the inward cry, “ God protect 
my boy. Father will come ere they can hurt one 
another.” 

“But how came it about?” she added, as with an 
arm round the trembling girl, she moved anxiously for- 
ward to know the issue. 

“ Oh ! I know not. ’Twas Humfrey fell on him. 
Hark !” 

“ ’Tis father’s voice,” said Susan. “ Thank God ! I 
know by the sound no harm is done ! But how was 
it, child ?” 

Cis told with more coherence now, but the tears in 
her eyes and colour deepening : “ I was taking in 
Humfrey’s kerchiefs from the bleaching on the grass, 
when Master Babington — he had brought me a pluma 
of pheasant’s feathers from the hunting, and he began. 


268 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

* 0 motlier, is it sooth ? He said my Lord had sent 
him.” 

“That is true, my child, but you know we have no 
choice but to refuse thee.” 

“ Ay, mother, and Antony knows.” 

“ Not thy true birth, child ?” 

“ Not that, but the other story. So he began to 
say that if I were favourable — Mother, do men 
always do like that?” Hiding her face against the 
trusty breast, “ And when I drew back, and said I 
could not and would not hearken to such folly 

“ That was well, dear child.” 

“ He woidd have it that I should have to hear him, 
and he went down on his knee, and snatched at my 
hand. And therewith came a great howl of rage like 
an angry lion, and Humfrey bounded right over the 
sweetbrier fence, and cried out, ‘Off, fellow! No 
Papist traitor knave shall meddle with her.’ And 
then Antony gave him back the lie for calling him 
traitor, and they drew their swords, and I ran away to 
call father, but oh ! mother, I heard them clash 1” and 
she shuddered again. 

“ See,” said Susan, as they had reached the corner 
of a thick screen of yew-trees, “ all is safe. There they 
stand, and father between them speaking to them. No, 
we will not go nearer, since we know that it is well 
with them. Men deal with each other better out of 
women’s earshot. Ah, see, there they are giving one 
another their hands. All is over now.” 

“ Humfrey stands tall, grave, and stiff ! He is only 
doing it because father bids him,” said Cicely. “ An- 
tony is much more willing.” 

“ Poor Humfrey 1 he knows better than Antony 
how vain any hope must be c f my silly little princess,” 


THE CLASH OF SWOEOS. 


269 


KIX.] 

said Susan, with a sigh for her hoy. “ Come in, child, 
and set thiise locks in order. The hour of noon hath 
long been over, and father hath not yet dined.” 

So they flitted out of sight as Eichard and his son 
turned from the place of encounter, the former sayirg, 
" Son Humfrey, I had deemed thee a wiser man.” 

'■ Sir, l ow could a man brook seeing that fellow on 
his kn 3e to her ? Is it not enough to be debarred from 
my sweet princess myself, but I must see her beset by 
a Papist and traitor, fostered and encouraged too?” 

“ And thou couldst not rest secure in the utter 
impossibility of her being given to him ? He is as 
much out of reach of her as thou art,” 

“ He has secured my Lord and my Lady on his side !” 
growled Humfrey. 

“ My Lord is not an Amurath, nor my Lady either,” 
said Eichard, shortly. “As long as I pass for her 
father I have power to dispose of her, and I am not 
going to give another wmman’s daughter away without 
her consent.” 

“ Yet the feUow may have her ear,” said Humfrey. 
“ I know him to be popishly inclined, and there is a 
web of those Eomish priests all over the island, whereof 
this Queen holds the strands in her fingers, captive 
though she be. I should not wonder if she had devised 
this fellow’s suit.” 

“ This is the very madness of jealousy, Humfrey,” 
said his father. “ The whole matter was, as thy mother 
and thy Lord have both told me, simply a device of my 
Lady Countess’s own brain.” 

“ Babington took to it wondrous naturally,” muttered 
Humfrey. 

“ That may be ; but as for the lady at Wingfield, 
her talk to our poor maid hath been all of archdukes 


270 UNKNOWN TO HISTORV^. [CHAP 

and dnkes. She is far too haughty to think for a 
moment of giving her daughter to a mere Derbyshire 
esquire, not even of noble blood. You may trust her 
for that.” 

This pacified Humfrey for a little while, especially 
as the bell was clanging for the meal which had been 
unusually deferred, and he had to hurry away to remove 
certain marks, which were happily the result of the 
sweetbrier weapons instead of that of Babington. 

That a little blood had been shed was shown by 
the state of liis sword point, but Antony had disclaimed 
being hurt when the master of the house came up, and 
in the heat of the rebuke the father and son had hardly 
noticed that he had thrown a kerchief round his left 
hand ere he moved away. 

Before dinner was over, word was brought in from 
the door that Master Will Cavendish wanted to speak 
to Master Humfrey. The ladies’ hearts were in their 
mouths, as it were, lest it should be to deliver a cartel, 
and they looked to the father to interfere, but he sat 
still, contenting himself with saying, as his son craved 
license to quit the board, “ Use discretion as well as 
honour.” 

They were glad that the next minute Humfrey came 
back to call his father to the door, where Will Caven- 
dish sat on horseback. He had come by desire of 
Babington, who had fully intended that the encounter 
should be kept secret, but some servant must have been 
aware of it either from the garden or the park, and the 
Countess had got wind of it. She had summoned 
Babington to her presence, before the castle barber 
had finished dealing with the cut in his hand, and 
the messenger reported that “ my Lady was in one of 
her raging fits,” and talked of throwing young Hum- 


XIX.] THE CLASH OF SWOEDS. 271 

frey into a dungeon, if not having him hung for liia 
insolence. 

]3abington, who had talked to his friends of a slip 
with his hunting-knife while disembowelling a deer, 
was forced to tell the fact in haste to Cavendish, the 
nearest at hand, begging him to hurry down and advise 
Humfrey to set forth at once if he did not wish hie 
journey to be unpleasantly delayed. 

“ My Lord is unwilling to cross my mother at the 
present,” said young Cavendish with lialf a smile ; “ and 
though it be not likely that much harm should come 
of the matter, yet if she laid hands on Humfrey at the 
present moment, there might be hindrance and vexa- 
tion, so it may be well for him to set forth, in case 
Tony be unable to persuade my Lady that it is nought.” 

Will Cavendish had been a friendly comrade of 
both Humfrey and Antony in their boyish days, and 
his warning was fully to be trusted. 

“ I know not why I should creep off as though I 
had done aught that was evil,” said Humfrey, drawing 
himself up. 

“ Well,” said Will, “ my Lord is always wroth at 
brawling with swords amongst us, and he might — my 
mother egging him on — lay you by the heels in the 
strong room for a week or so. Hay, for my part, me- 
thinks ’twas a strange requital of poor Babington’s 
suit to your sister! Had she been your love instead 
of your sister there might have been plainer excuse, 
but sure you wot not of aught against Tony to warrant 
such heat.” 

“ He was importuning her when she would have 
none of him,” said Humfrey, feeling the perplexity he 
had drawn on himself 

Will says well,” added the father, feeling that it 


272 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[hhap. 

by all means behoved them all to avert inquiry into 
the cause of Humfrey’s passion, since neither Cicely’s 
birth nor Antony’s perilous inclinations could be 
pleaded. “ To be detained a week or two might hin- 
der thy voyage. So we will speed thee on thy way 
instantly.” 

“ Tell me not where he halts for the night,” said 
Cavendish significantly. “ Fare thee well, Humfrey. I 
would return ere I am missed. I trust thou wilt have 
made the Spaniard’s ships smoke, and weighted thy 
pouch with his dollars, before we see thee again.” 

“ Fare thee well. Will, and thank thee kindly,” re- 
turned Humfrey, as they wrung each other’s hands. 
“ And tell Antony that I thank him heartily for his 
thought, and owe him a good turn.” 

“ That is well, my son,” said Eichard, as Cavendish 
rode out of the court. “ Babiugton is both hot and 
weak-headed, and I fear me is in the toils of the Scot- 
tish lady ; but he would never do aught that he held 
as disloyal by a comrade. I wish I could say the 
same of him anent the Queen.” 

“ And you will guard her from him, sir ? ” earnestly 
said Humfrey. 

“ As I would from — I would have said Frenchman 
or Spaniard, but, poor maid, that may only be her hap, 
if her mother should come to her throne again ; ” and 
as Humfrey shrugged his shoulders at the improbability, 
“ But we must see thee off, my boy. Poor mother ! 
this hurries the parting for her. So best, mayhap.” 

It was hastily arranged that Humfrey should ride 
off at once, and try to overtake a squire who had been 
at the festival, and had invited him to turn a little out 
of his road and spend a day or two at his house when 
leaving home. Humfrey had then declined, but hos- 


XIX. I 


THE CLASH OF SWORDS. 


J73 


pitality in those days was elastic, and he had no doubt 
of a welcome. His father would bring Diccon and his 
baggage to join him there the next day. 

Thus there were only a very few minutes for adieux, 
and, as Eichard had felt, this was best for all, even tlie 
anxious mother. Cicely ran about with the rest in the 
stress of preparation, until Humfrey, hurrying upstairs, 
met her coming down with a packet of his lace cuffs 
in her hands. 

He caught the hand on the balusters, and cried, 
“ My princess, my princess, and art thou doing this for 
me?” 

“ Thou hast learnt fine compliments, Humfrey,” said 
Cis, trying to do her part with quivering lips. 

“ Ah, Cis ! thou knowest but too well what hath 
taught me no fine words but plain truth. Fear me 
not, I know what is due to thee. Cis, we never used 
to believe the tales and ballads that told of knights 
worshipping princesses beyond their reach, without a 
hope of more than a look — not even dariug to wish 
for more ; Cis, it is very truth. Be thou where thou 
wilt, with whom thou wilt, there will be one ready to 
serve thee to the uttermost, and never ask aught — 
aught but such remembrance as may befit the brother 
of thy childhood ” 

" Mistress Cis,” screamed one of the maids, “ madam 
is waiting for those cuffs.” 

Cis ran down, but the squeeze and kiss on the 
hand remained, as it were, imprinted on it, far more 
than the last kiss of all, which he gave, as both knew 
and felt, to support his character as a brother before 
the assembled household. 


274 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CKAj', 


CHAPTER XX. 

WINGFIELD MANOR. 

The drawing of swords was not regarded as a heinous 
offence in Elizabethan days. It was not likely, under 
ordinary circumstances, to result in murder, and was 
looked on much as boxing is, or was recently, in 
public schools, as an evidence of high spirit, and a 
means of working off ill-blood. 

Lady Shrewsbury was, however, much incensed at 
such a presumptuous reception of the suitor whom she 
had backed with her would-be despotic influence; and 
in spite of Babington’s making extremely light of it, 
and declaring that he had himself been too forward in 
his suit, and the young lady’s apparent fright had 
made her brother interfere over hastily for her protec- 
tion, four yeomen were despatched by her Ladyship 
with orders instantly to bring back Master Humfrey 
Talbot to answer for himself. 

They were met by JMr. Talbot with the sober reply 
that Master Humfrey was already set forth on his 
journey. The men, having no orders, never thought 
of pursuing him, and after a short interval Richard 
thought it expedient to proceed to the Manor-house to 
explain matters. 

The Countess swooped upon him in one of hei 


WINGFIELD MANOK, 


27a 


XX.] 

ungovernable furies — one of those of which even 
Gilbert Talbot avoided writing the particulars to his 
father — abusing his whole household in general, and 
his son in particular, in the most outrageous manner, 
for thus receiving the favour she had done to their 
beggarly, ill-favoured, ill-nurtured daughter. Eichard 
stood still and grave, his hat in his hand, as unmoved 
and tranquil as if he had been breasting a stiff breeze 
on the deck of his ship, with good sea-room and con- 
fidence in all his tackle, never even attempting to 
open his lips, but looking at the Countess with a 
steady gaze which somehow disconcerted her, for she 
demanded wherefore he stared at her like one of his 
clumsy hinds. 

“ Because her Ladyship does not know what she is 
saying,” he replied. 

“ Barest thou ! Thou traitor, thou viper, thou 
unhanged 1-ascal, thou mire under my feet, thou blot 
on the house ! Barest thou beard me — me ?” screamed 
my Lady. “ Barest thou — I say ” 

If the sailor had looked one whit less calm and 
resolute, my Lady would have had her clenched fist on 
his ear, or her talons in his beard, but he was like a 
rock against which the billows expended themselves, 
and after more of the tempest than need stain these 
pages, she deigned to demand what he meant or had 
to say for his son. 

“ Solely this, madam, that my son had never even 
heard of Babington’s suit, far less that he had your 
Ladyship’s good-wiU. He found him kneeling to 
Cicely in the garden, and the girl, distressed and dis- 
mayed at his importunity. There were hot words and 
drawn blades. That was the whole. I parted them 
and saw them join hands.” 


276 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

“So saitli Master Babington. He is willing to 
overlook the insult, so will I and my Lord, if you will 
atone for it by instantly consenting to this espousal.” 

“ That, madam, I cannot do.” 

She let him say no more, and the storm had begun 
to rage agam, when Babington took advantage of an 
interval to take breath, and said, “ I thank you, 
madam, and pray you peace. If a little space be 
vouchsafed me, I trust to show this worthy gentleman 
cause wherefore he should no longer withhold his fair 
damsel from me.” 

“ Indeed !” said the Countess. “ Art thou so con- 
fident? I marvel what better backer thou wouldst 
have than me ! So conceited of themselves are young 
men now-a-days, they think, forsooth, their own merits 
and graces should go farther in mating them than the 
word and will of their betters. There, you may go ! 
I wash my hands of the matter. One is as ingrate as 
the other.” 

Both gentlemen accepted this amiable dismissal, 
each hoping that the Countess might indeed have 
washed her hands of their affairs. On his departure 
Richard was summoned into the closet of the Earl, 
who had carefully kept out of the way during the 
uproar, only trusting not to be appealed to. “ My 
good cousin,” he asked, “ what means this broil be- 
tween the lads ? Hath Babington spoken sooth ?” 

“ He hath spoken weU and more generously than, 
mayhap, I thought he would have done,” said Richard. 

“ Ay ; you have judged the poor youth somewhat 
hardly, as if the folly of pagedom never were out- 
grown,” said the Earl. “ I put him under governor- 
ship such as to drive out of his silly pate aU the wiles 
that he was fed upon here. You will see him prove 


WINGFIELD MANOR. 


277 


XX.] 

himself an honest Protestant and good subject yet, and 
be glad enough to give him your daughter. So he was 
too hot a lover for Master Humfrey’s notions, eh ?” said 
my Lord, laughing a little. “ The vaiiet ! He was over 
prompt to protect his sister, yet ’twas a fault on the 
right side, and I am sorry there was such a noise about 
it that he should have gone without leave-takings.” 

“He will be glad to hear of your Lordship’s good- 
ness. I shall go after him to-morrow and take his 
mails and little Diccon to him.” 

“ That is well,” said the Earl. “ And give him 
this, with his kinsman’s good wishes that he may win 
ten times more from the Don,” pushing towards 
Eichard a packet of twenty broad gold pieces, stamped 
with Queen Bess in all her glory ; and then, after 
receiving due thanks for the gift, which was meant half 
as friendly feudal patronage from the head of the family, 
lialf as a contribution to the royal service, the Earl 
added, “ I would crave of thee, Eichard, to extend thy 
journey to Wingfield. Here are some accounts of which 
I could not sooner get the items, to be discharged be- 
tween me and the lady there — and I would fain send 
thee as the man whom I can most entirely trust. I 
will give thee a pass, and a letter to Sadler, bidding 
him admit thee to her presence, since there are matters 
here which can sooner be discharged by one word of 
mouth than by many weary lines of writing.” 

Good Master Eichard’s conscience had little occa- 
sion to wince, yet he could not but feel somewhat 
guilty when this opportune commission was given to 
him, since the Earl gave it unaware of his secret 
under-standing with the captive. He accepted it, 
however, without hesitation, since he was certainly 
not going to make a mischievous use of it, and bent 


278 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAP. 

all his mind to understand the complicated accounts 
that he was to lay before the Queen or her comptroller 
of the household. 

He had still another interview to undergo with 
Antony Babington, who overtook him on his way 
home through the crackling leaves that strewed the 
avenue, as the October twilight fell. His recent con- 
duct towards Humfrey gave him a certain right to 
friendly attention, though, as the frank-hearted mariner 
said to himself, it was hard that a plain man, who 
never told a lie, nor willingly had a concealment of his 
own, should be involved in a many-sided secret like 
this, a sort of web, where there was no knowing 
whether straining the wrong strand might not amount 
to a betrayal, all because he had rescued an infant, and 
not at once proclaimed her an alien. 

“ Sir,” said Antony, “ if my impatience to accost the 
maiden we wot of, when I saw her alone, had not mis- 
led me, I should have sought you first to tell you that 
no man knows better than I that my Lady Countess’s 
good will is not what is wanting to forward my suit.” 

“ Knowing then that it is not in my power or right 
to dispose of her, thine ardent wooing was out of place,” 
said Eichard. 

“ I own it, sir, though had I but had time I should 
have let the maiden know that I sought her subject to 
other approval, which I trust to obtain so as to satisfy 
you.” 

“Young man,” said Eichard, “listen to friendly 
counsel, and meddle not in perilous matters. I ask 
thee not whetlier Dethick hath any commerce with 
Wingfield ; but I warn thee earnestly to eschew begin- 
ning again that which caused the trouble of thy child- 
hood- Thou mayst do it innocently, seeking the con* 


WINGFIELD MANOR. 


279 


XX.] 

sent of the lady to this courtship of thine ; but T tell 
thee, as one who knows more of the matter than thou 
canst, that thou wilt only meet with disappointment.” 

“Hath the Queen other schemes for her?” asked 
Ilahington, anxiously; and Eichard, thinking of the 
vista of possible archdukes, replied that she had ; but 
that he was not free to speak, though he replied to 
Babington’s half-uttered question that his son Humfrey 
was by no means intended. 

“ Ah !” cried Antony, “ you give me hope, sir. I 
will do her such service that she shall refuse me 
nothing ! Sir ! do you mock me !” he added, with a 
fierce change of note. 

“ My poor lad, I could not but laugh to think what 
a simple plotter you are, and what fine service you will 
render if thou utterest thy vows to the very last person 
who should hear them ! Credit me, thou wast never 
made for privy schemes and conspiracies, and a Queen 
who can only be served by such, is no mistress for thee. 
Thou wilt but run thine own neck into the noose, and 
belike that of others.” 

“ That will I never do,” quoth Antony. “ I may 
peril myself, but no others.” 

“ Then the more you keep out of secrets the better. 
Thou art too open-hearted and unguarded for them ! 
So speaks thy well-wisher, Antony, whose friendship 
thou hast won by thine honourable conduct towards 
my rash boy ; though I tell thee plainly, the maiden is 
not for thee, whether as Scottish or English,Cis or Bride.” 

So they parted at the gate of the park, the younger 
man full of hope and confidence, the elder full of 
pitying misgiving. 

He was too kind-hearted not to let Cicely know 
that he should see her mother, oi to refuse to take a 


280 


UNKNOWN TO HISIORY. 


[chap. 

billet for her, — a little formal note necessarily silent on 
die matter at issue, since it had to be laid before the 
Earl, who smiled at the scrupulous precaution, and let 
it pass. 

Thus the good father parted with Humfrey and 
Dicv'on, rejoicing in his heart that they would fight 
svith open foes, instead of struggling with the meshes 
of pt'plexity, which beset all concerned with Queen 
Maiv and then he turned his horse’s head towards 
WingUeld Manor, a grand old castellated mansion of 
the Tv.lbots, considered by some to excel even Sheffield. 
It stood high, on ground falling very steeply from the 
walls on three sides, and on tlie south well fortified, 
court within court, and each with a deep-arched and 
portC'dlised gateway, with loopholed turrets on either 
side, u porter’s lodge, and yeomen guards. 

]\tr. Talbot had to give his name and quality, and 
show his pass, at each of these gates, though they were 
still (;,iiarded by Shrewsbury retainers, with the talbot 
on tlnur sleeves. He was, however, received with the 
respect and courtesy due to a trusted kinsman of their 
lord; and Sir Ealf Sadler, a thin, elderly, careworn 
statesman, came to greet him at the door of the hall, 
and would only have been glad could he have remained 
a week, instead of for the single night he wished to 
spend at Wingfield. 

Sadler was one of Mary’s most gentle and courteous 
warders, and he spoke of her with much kindness, 
regretting that her health had again begun to suffer 
from the approach of winter, and far more from 
disappointment. 

The negotiation with Scotland on her behalf was 
now known to have been abortive. James had fallen 
into the hands of the faction most hostile to her, and 


WINGFIELD MANOR. 


281 


XX.] 

tliougli his mother still clung with desperate hope to 
the trust that he, at least, was labouring on her behalf, 
no one else believed that he cared for anything but his 
own security, and even she had been forced to perceive 
that her liberation was again adjourned. 

“ And what think you was her thought when she 
found that road closed up ?” said Sir Ealf. “ Why, for 
her people ! Her gentlewoman, Mrs. Mowbray, hath, it 
seems, been long betrothed.” 

“Ay, to Gilbert Curll, the long-backed Scotch 
Secretary. They were to be wed at Stirling so soon as 
she arrived there again.” 

“ Yea ; but when she read the letter that overthrew 
her hopes, what did she say but that ‘ her servants 
must not grow gray-headed with waiting till she was 
set free ’ ! So she would have me make the case known 
to Sir Parson, and we had them married in the parish 
church two days since, they being both good Protestants.” 

“ There is no doubt that her kindne.ss of heart is 
true,” said Eichard. “ The poor folk at Sheffield and 
Ecclesfield will miss her plentiful almsgiving,” 

“ Some say it ought to be hindered, for that it is 
but a purchasing of friends to her cause,” said Sadler ; 
“ but I have not the heart to check it, and what could 
these of the meaner sort do to our Queen’s prejudice ? 
I take care that nothing goes among them that could 
hide a billet, and that none of her people have private 
speech with them, so no harm can ensue from her 
bounty.” 

A message here came that the Queen was ready to 
admit Mr. Talbot, and Eichard found himself in her 
presence chamber, a larger and finer room than that in 
the lodge at Sheffield, and with splendid tapestry 
hangings and plenishings ; but the windows all looked 


282 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

into the inner quadrangle, instead of on the expanse 
of park, and thus, as Mary said, she felt more entirely 
the prisoner. This, however, was not perceptible at 
tlie time, for the autumn evening had closed in ; there 
were two large fires burning, one at each end of the 
room, and tall tapestry-covered screens and high-backed 
settles were arranged so as to exclude the draughts 
around the hearth, where Mary reclined on a couch- 
like chair. She looked ill, and though she brightened 
with her sweet smile to welcome her guest, there 
were dark circles round her eyes, and an air of de- 
jection in her whole appearance. She held out her 
hand graciously, as Eichard approached, closely fol- 
lowed by his host ; he put his knee to the ground 
and kissed it, as she said, “You must pardon me, 
Mr. Talbot, for discourtesy, if I am less agile than 
when we were at Buxton. You see my old foe lies in 
wait to plague me with aches and pains so soon as the 
year declines.” 

“ I am sorry to see your Grace thus,” returned 
Eichard, standing on the step. 

“ The while I am glad to see you thus well, sir. 
And how does the good lady, your wife, and my sweet 
playfellow, your daughter?” 

“ Well, madam, I thank your Grace, and Cicely has 
presumed to send a billet by mine hand.” 

“ Ah ! the dear bairnie,” and all the Queen’s con- 
summate art could not repress the smile of gladness 
and the movement of eager joy with which she held out 
her hand for it, so that Eichard regretted its extreme 
brevity and unsatisfying nature, and Mary, recollecting 
herself in a secoi.d, added, smiling at Sadler, “ Mr. 
Talbot knows how a poor prisoner must love the pretty 
playfellows that are lent to her for a time.” 


WINGFIELD MANOR. 


283 


xx.j 

Sir Ealfs presence hindered any more intimate 
conversation, and Eichard had certainly committed a 
solecism in giving Cicely’s letter the precedence over 
the Earl’s, The Queen, however, had recalled her 
caution, and inquired for the health of the Lord and 
Lady, and, with a certain sarcasm on her lips, trusted 
that the peace of the family was complete, and that 
they were once more setting Hallamshire the example 
of living together as household doves. 

Her hazel eyes meantime archly scanned the face 
of Eichard, who could not quite forget the very un- 
dovelike treatment he had received, though he could 
and did sturdily aver that ■“ my Lord and my Lady were 
perfectly reconciled, and seemed most happy in their 
reunion.” 

Well-a-day, let us trust that there will be no 
further disturbances to their harmony,” said Mary, “ a 
prayer I may utter most sincerely. Is the Ettle 
Arbell come back with them ? ” 

“ Yea, madam.” 

“ And is she installed in my former rooms, with the 
canopy over her cradle to befit her strain of royalty ? ” 

“ I think not, madam. Meseems that my Lady 
Countess hath seen reason to be heedful on that score. 
My young lady hath come back with a grave gouvernante, 
who makes her read her primer and sew her seam, and 
save that she sat next my Lady at the wedding feast 
there is little difference made between her and the 
other grandchildren.” 

The Queen then inquired into the circumstances of 
the wedding festivities with the interest of one to 
whom most of the parties were more or less known, 
and who seldom had the treat of a little feminine 
gossip. She asked who had been “ her little Cis’s 


284 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

partner,” and when she heard of Babiugton, she said, 
“ Ah ha, then, the poor youth has made his pea'je with 
my Lord ? ” 

“ Certes, madam, he is regarded with high favour 
by both my Lord and my Lady,” said Richard, lieartily 
wishing himself rid of his host. 

“ I rejoice to hear it,” said Mary ; “ I was afraid 
that his childish knight-errantry towards the captive 
dame had damaged the poor stripling’s prospects for 
ever. He is our neighbour here, and I believe Sir 
Ealf regards him as somewhat perilous.” 

“ Nay, madam, if my Lord of Shrewsbury be satis- 
fied with him, so surely ought I to be,” said Sir Ealf. 

Nothing more of importance passed that night. 
The packet of accounts was handed over to Sir 
Andrew Melville, and the two gentlemen dismissed 
with gracious good-nights. 

Eichard Talbot was entirely trusted, and when the 
next morning after prayers, breakfast, and a turn among 
the stables, it was intimated that the Queen was ready 
to see him anent my Lord’s business. Sir Ealf Sadler, 
who had his week’s report to write to the Council, 
requested that his presence might be dispensed with, 
and thus Mr. Talbot was ushered into the Queen’s closet 
without any witnesses to their interview save Sir 
Andrew Melville and Marie de Courcelles. The 
Queen was seated in a large chair, leaning against 
cushions, and evidently in a good deal of pain, but, as 
Eichard made his obeisance, her eyes shone as she 
quoted two lines from an old Scotch baEad — 

“ ‘ Madame, how does my gay goss hawk I 
Madame, how does my doo ? ’ 

Now can I hear what I hunger for 1 ** 


XX.] 


WINGFIELD MAtsOR. 


285 


“ My gay gosshawk, madam, is flown to join Sir 
Francis Drake at Plymouth, and taken his little 
brother with him. I come now from speeding them 
as far as Derby.” 

“ Ah ! you must not ask me to pray for success to 
them, my good sir, — only /;hat there may be a time 
when nations may be no more divided, and I fear me 
we shall not live to see it. And my doo — my little 
Cis, did she weep as became a sister for the bold 
laddies ? ” 

“ She wept many tears, madam, but we are sore 
perplexed by a matter that I must lay before your 
Grace. My Lady Countess is hotly bent on a match 
between the maiden and young Babington.” 

“ Babington ! ” exclaimed the Queen, with the 
lioness sparkle in her eye. “ You refused the fellow 
of course ? ” 

“ Flatly, madam, but your Grace knows that it is 
ill making the Countess accept a denial of her will.” 

Mary laughed “ Ah ha ! methought, sir, you looked 
somewhat as if you had had a recent taste of my Lord 
of Shrewsbury’s dove. But you are a man to hold 
your own sturdy will. Master Eichard, let Lord or 
Lady say what they choose.” 

“ I trust so, madam, I am master of mine own 
house, and, as I should certainly not give mine own 
daughter to Babington, so shall I guard your Grace’s.” 

“ You would not give the child to him if she were 
your own ? ” 

' No, madam.” 

" And wherefore not ? Because he is too much 
inclined to the poor prisoner and her faith ? Is it so, 
Bii?” 

“ Your Gi ace speaks the truth in part,” said Eichard, 


286 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

and then with effort added, '' and likewise, madam, 
with your pardon, I would say that though I verily 
believe it is nobleness of heart and spirit that 
inclines poor Antony to espouse your Grace’s cause, 
there is to my mind a shallowness and indiscretion 
about his nature, even when most in earnest, such as 
would make me loath to commit any woman, or any 
secret, to his charge.” 

“ You are an honest man, Mr. Talbot,” said 
Mary ; " I am glad my poor maid is in your charge. 
Tell me, is this suit on his part made to your 
daughter or to the Scottish orphan ? ” 

“ To the Scottish orphan, madam. Thus much he 
knows, though by what means I cannot tell, unless 
it be through that kinsman of mine, who, as I 
told your Grace, saw the babe the night I brought 
her in.” 

“ Doubtless,” responded Mary. “ Take care he 
neither knows more, nor hints what he doth know to 
the Countess.” 

“ So far as I can, I will, madam,” said Eichard, 
“ but his tongue is not easy to silence ; I marvel that 
he hath not let the secret ooze out already.” 

“ Proving him to have more discretion than you 
gave him credit for, my good sir,” said the Queen, 
smiling. “ Eefuse him, however, staunchly, grounding 
your refusal, if it so please you, on the very causes 
for which I should accept him, were the lassie verily 
what he deems her, my ward and kinswoman. Nor 
do you accede to him, whatever word or token he may 
declare that he brings from me, unless it bear this mark,” 
and she hastily traced a peculiar-twisted form of M. 
“You know it ? ” she asked. 

“ I have seen it, madam,” said Eichard, gravely, 


JOC.] WINGFIELD MANOR. 287 

for he knew it as the letter whica had been traced on 
the child’s shoulders. 

“ Ah, good Master Eichard,” she said, with a sweet 
and wistful expression, looking up to his face in plead- 
ing, and changing to the familiar pronoun, “ thou likest 
not my charge, and I know that it is hard on an up- 
right man like thee to have all this dissembling thrust 
on thee, but what can a poor captive mother do but 
strive to save her child from an unworthy lot, or from 
captivity like her own ? I ask thee to say nought, 
that is all, and to shelter the maid, who hath been as 
thine own daughter, yet a little longer. Thou wilt not 
deny me, for her sake.” 

“ Madam, I deny nothing that a Christian man and 
my Queen’s faithful servant may in honour do. Youi' 
Grace has the right to choose your own daughter’s lot, 
and with her I will deal as you direct me. But, 
madam, were it not well to bethink yourself whether 
it be not a perilous and a cruel policy to hold out a 
bait to nourish hope in order to bind to your service a 
foolish though a generous youth, whose devotion may, 
after all, work you and him’self more ill than good ?” 

Mary looked a good deal struck, and waved back 
her two attendants, who were both startled and offended 
at what Marie de Courcelles described as the English- 
man’s brutal boldness. 

“ Silence, dear friends,” said she. “ Would that I 
had always had counselloi's who would deal with me 
witli such honour and disinterestedness. Then should 
1 m*t be here.” 

However, she then turned her attention to the 
accounts, where Sir Andrew Melville was ready to 
question and debate every item set down by Shrews- 
bury’s sfieward ; while his mistress sbswed herself 


288 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAP. 

liberal and open-handed. Indeed she liad considerable 
command of money from her French do wry, the proceeds 
of which were, in spite of the troubles of the League, 
regularly paid to her, and no doubt served her well in 
maintaining the correspondence which, throughout her 
captivity, eluded the vigilance of her keepers. On 
taking leave of her, which Eichard Talbot did Ijefore 
joining his host at the mid-day meal, she reiterated her 
thanks for his care of her daughter, and her charges to 
let no persuasion induce him to consent to Babington’s 
overtures, adding that she hoped soon to obtain per- 
mission to have the maiden amongst her authorised 
attendants. She gave him a billet, loosely tied with 
black flos^ silk and unsealed, so that if needful, Sadler 
and Shrewsbury might both inspect the tender, playful, 
messages she wrote to her “ mignonne” and which she 
took care should not outrun those which she had often 
addressed to Bessie Pierrepoiut. 

Cicely was a little disappointed when she first 
opened the letter, but ere long she bethought herself 
of the directions she had received to hold such notes 
to the fire, and accordingly she watched, waiting even 
tdl the next day before she could have free and soli- 
tary access to either of the two fires in the house, 
those in the hall and in the kitchen. 

At last, while the master was out farming, Ned at 
school, and the mistress and all her maids engaged in 
the unsavoury occupation of making candles, by re- 
peated dipping of rushes into a caldron of melted 
fat, after the winter’s salting, she escaped under pre- 
text of attending to the hall fire, and kneeling beside 
the glowing embers, she held the paper over it, and soon 
saw pale yellow characters appear and deepen into a sort 
of brown or green, in which she read, “ My little jewel 


WINGFIELD MANOR. 


289 


XX.] 

must share the ring with none less precious. Yet he 
not amazed if commendations as from me be brought 
thee. Jewels are sometimes useful to dazzle the eyes 
of those who shall never possess them. Therefore 
seem not cold nor over coy, so as to take away all 
hope. It may be much for my service. Thou art 
discreet, and thy good guardians will hinder all from 
going too far. It might be well that he should deem 
thee and me inclined to what they oppose. Be secret 
Keep thine own counsel, and let them not even guess 
what thou hast here read. So fare thee well, with 
my longing, yearning blessing.” 

Cicely hastily hid the letter in the lar^ house- 
wifely pocket attached to her girdle, feeling excited 
and important at having a real secret unguessed by 
any one, and yet experiencing some of the reluctance 
natural to the pupil of Susan Talbot at the notion of 
acting a part towards Babington. She really liked 
him, and her heart warmed to him as a true friend of 
her much-injured mother, so that it seemed the more 
cruel to delude him with false hopes. Yet here was 
she asked to do a real service to her mother ! 

Poor Cis, she knelt gazing perplexed into the 
embers, now and then touching a stick to make them 
glow, till Nat, the chief of “the old blue bottles of serving- 
men,” came in to lay the cloth for dinner, exclaiming, 
“ So, Mistress Cis ! Madam doth cocker thee truly, 
letting thee dream over the coals, till thy face be as 
red as my Lady’s new farthingale, while she is toiling 
away like a very sculliom” 


290 


UNIiNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTER XXL 

A TANGLE. 

It was a lainy November afternoon. Dinner was over, 
the great wood fire had been made up, and Mistress 
Talbot was presiding over the womenfolk of her house- 
hold and their tasks with needle and distaff. She 
had laid hands on her unwilling son Edward to show 
his father how well he could read the pUce de resistance 
of the family, Fabyan’s Chronicle ; and the boy, with 
an elbow firmly planted on either side of the great folio, 
was floundering through the miseries of King Stephen’s 
time ; while Mr. Talbot,, after smoothing the head 
of his largest hound for some minutes, had leant back 
in his chair and dropped asleep. Cicely’s hand tardily 
drew out her thread, her spindle scarcely balanced itself 
on the floor, and her maiden meditation was in an in- 
active sort of way occupied with the sense of dulness 
after the summer excitements, and wonder whether her 
greatness were all a dream, and anything would happen 
to recall her once more to be a princess. The kitten at 
her feet took the spindle for a lazily moving creature, 
and thought herself fascinating it, so she stared hard, 
with only an occasional whisk of the end of her striped 
tail; and Mistress Susan was only kept awake by her 
anxiety to adapt Diccon’s last year’s jerkin to Ned’s use 


XXI,] 


A TANGLE. 


291 


Suddenly the dogs outside bayed, the dogs inside 
pricked their ears, Ned joyfully halted, his father uttered 
the unconscious falsehood, “ I’m not asleep, lad, go on,” 
then woke up as horses’ feet were heard ; Ned dashed 
out into the porch, and was in time to hold the horse 
of one of the two gentlemen, who, with cloaks over their 
heads, had ridden up to the door. He helped them 
off with their cloaks in the porch, exchanging greetings 
with William Cavendish and Antony Babington. 

" Will Mrs. Talbot pardon our riding- boots ?” said 
the former. “We have only come down from the 
Manor-house, and we rode mostly on the grass.” 

Their excuses were accepted, though Susan had 
rather Master William had brought any other com- 
panion. However, on such an afternoon, almost any 
variety was welcome, especially to the younger folk, 
and room was made for them in the circle, and accord- 
ing to the hospitality of the time, a cup of canary 
fetched for each to warm him after the ride, while 
another was brought to the master of the house to 
pledge them in — a relic of the barbarous ages, when 
such a security was needed that the beverage was not 
poisoned. 

Will Cavendish then explained that a post had 
come that morning to his stepfather from Wingfield, 
having been joined on the way by Babington (people 
always preferred travelling in companies for security’s 
sake), and that, as there was a packet from Sir Ealf 
Sadler for Master Eichard, he had brought it down, 
accompanied by his friend, who was anxious to pay his 
devoirs to the ladies, and though Will spoke to the 
mother, he smiled and nodded comprehension at the 
daughter, who blushed furiously, and set her spindle 
to twirl and leap so violently, as ti> make the kitten 


292 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CH..4P. 

believe the creature had taken fright, and was going to 
escape. On she dashed with a sudden spring, in- 
volving herself and it in the flax. The old watch-dog 
roused himself with a growl to keep order. Cicely flung 
herself on the cat, Antony hurried to the rescue to 
help her disentangle it, and received a fierce scratch 
for his pains, which made him start hack, while Mrs. 
Talbot put in her word. “ Ah, Master Babiugtou, it is 
ill meddling with a cat in the toils, specially for men 
• ' folk ! Here, Cis, hold her fast and I will soon have 
her free. Still, Tib ! 

Cicely’s cheeks were of a still deeper colour as she 
held fast the mischievous favourite, while the good 
mother untwisted the flax from its little claws and 
supple limbs, while it winked, twisted its head about 
sentimentally, purred, and altogether wore an air of 
injured innocence and forgiveness. 

“ I am afraid, sir, you receive nothing but damage 
at our house,” said Mrs. Talbot politely. “ Hast drawn 
blood ? Oh fie ! thou ill-mannered Tib ! Will you 
have a tuft from a beaver to stop the .blood ?” 

“ Thanks, madam, no, it is a sm*all scratch. T 
would, I would that I could face truer perils for this 
lady’s sake!” 

“ That I hope you will not, sii ,” said Eichard, in a 
serious tone, which conveyed a meaning to the ears of 
^ the initiated, though Will Cavendish only laughed, and 
said, , 

“ Our kinsman takes it gravely 1 It was in the 
days of our grandfathers that ‘ladies could throw a 
glove among the lions, and bid a knight fetch it out 
for her love.” 

“ It has not needed a lion to defeat Mi. Babington,” 
observed Ned, looking up from his book with a sober 


A TANGLE. 


293 


XXL] 

twinkle in his eye, which set them all laughing, though 
his father declared that he ought to have his ears 
boxed for u malapert varlet. 

A\’'ill Cavendish declared that the least the fair 
damsel could do for her knight-errant was to bind up 
his wounds, but Cis was too shy to show any disposi- 
tion so to do, and it was Mrs. Talbot who salved the 
scratch for him. She had a feeling for the motherless 
youth, upon whom she foreboded that a fatal game 
might be played. 

When quiet was restored, Mr. Talbot craved license 
from his guests, and opened the packet. There was a 
letter for Mistress Cicely Talbot in Queen Mary’s well- 
known beautiful hand, which Antony followed with 
eager eyes, and a low gasp of “Ah ! favoured maiden,” 
making the good mother, who overheard it, say to her- 
self, “Methinks his love is chiefly for the maid a.s 
something appertaining to the Queen, though he wots 
not how nearly. His heart is most for the Queen her- 
self, poor lad.” 

The maiden did not show any great haste to open 
the letter, being aware that the true gist of it could 
only be discovered in private, and her father was 
studying his own likewise in silence. It was from 
Sir Ealf Sadler to request that Mistress Cicely might 
be permitted to become a regular member of the house- 
hold. There was now a vacancy since, though Mrs. 
Curll was nearly as much about the Queen as ever, it 
was as the secretary’s wife, not as one of the maiden 
attendants ; and Sir Ealf wrote that he wished the more 
to profit by the opportunity, as he might soon be dis- 
placed by some one not of a temper greatly to consider 
the prisoner’s wishes. IMoreover, he said the poor lady 
was ill at ease, and much dejected at the tenor of 


294 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

her late lett.rs from Scotland, and that she had said 
repeatedly that nothing would do her good but th^ 
presence of her pretty playfellow. Sir Ealf added 
assurances that he would wat«h over the maiden like 
his own daughter, and would take the utmost care 
of the faith and good order of all 'vrithin his house- 
hold. Curll also wrote by order of his mistress a formal 
application for the young lady, to which Mary had 
added in her own hand, “ I thank the good Master 
Eichard and Mrs. Susan beforehand, for I know they 
will not deny me.” 

Eefusal was, of course, impossible to a mother who 
had every right to claim her own child ; and there was 
nothing to be done but to fix the time for setting off : 
and Cicely, who had by this time read her own letter, 
or at least all that was on the surface, looked up trem- 
ulous, with a strange frightened gladness, and said, 
“ Mother, she needs me.” 

“ I shall shortly be returning home,” said Antony, 
“ and shall much rejoice if I may be one of the party 
who will escort this fair maiden.” 

“ I shall take my daughter myself on a pillion, sir,” 
said Eichard, shortly. 

“ Then, sir, I may tell my Lord that you purpose to 
grant this request,” said Will Cavendish, who had ex- 
pected at least some time to be asked for deliberation, 
and knew his mother would expect her permission to 
be requested. 

“ I may not choose but do so,” replied Eichard ; and 
then, thinking he might have said too much, he added, 
•'* It were sheer cruelty to deny any solace to the poor 
lady.” 

“ Sick and in prison, and balked by her only son,” 
added Susan, “ one’s heart cannot but ache for her.” 


XXI.] 


A TANGLE. 


29/1 


“ Let not Mr. Secretary AValsingham hear you say 

good madam,” said Cavendish, smiling. In Lon- 
don they think of her solely as a kind of malicious 
fury shut up in a cage, and there were those who looked 
askance at me when I declaxed that she was a gentle- 
woman of great sweetness/und kindness of demeanour. 
I believe myself they will not rest till they have her 
blood ! ” 

Cis and Susan cried out with horror, and Babington 
with stammering wrath demanded whether she was to be 
assassinated in the Spanish fashion, or on what pretext 
a charge could be brought against her. “ Well,” Caven- 
dish answered, “ as the saying is, give her rope enough, 
and she will hang herself.” Indeed, there’s no doubt 
but that she tampered enough with Throckmorton’s 
plot to have been convicted of misprision of treason, 
and so she would have been, but that her most sacred 
Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, would have no charge made 
against her. 

“ Treason from one sovereign to another, that is new 
law !” said Babington. 

“ So to speak,” said Eichard ; but if she claim to 
be heiress to the crown, she must also be a subject. 
Heaven forefend that she should come to the throne !” 

To which all except Cis and Babington uttered a 
hearty amen, while a picture arose before the girl of 
licrself standing beside her royal mother robed in velvet 
and ermine on the throne, and of the faces of Lady 
Shrewsbury and her daughter as they recognised her, 
and were pardoned. 

Cavendish presently took his leave, and carried the 
unwilling Babington off with him, rightly divining that 
the family would wish to make their arrangements 
alone. To Eichard’s relief, Babington had brought 


296 UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. [CHAP. 

ViiTTi no private message, and to Cicely’s disappoint- 
ment, there was no addition in sympathetic ink to her 
letter, though she scorched the paper brown in trying 
to bring one out. The Scottish Queen was much too 
wary to waste and risk her secret expedients without 
necessity. 

To Eichard and Susan this was the real resignation 
of their foster-child into the hands of her own parent. 
It was true that she would still bear their name, and 
pass for their daughter, but that would be only so long 
as it might suit her mother’s convenience ; and instead 
of seeing her every day, and eujoying her full con- 
fidence (so far as they knew), she would be out of 
reach, and given up to influences, both moral and 
religious, which they deeply distrusted ; also to a fate 
looming in the future with all the dark uncertainty 
that brooded over all connected with Tudor or Stewart 
royalty. 

How much good Susan wept and prayed that night, 
only her pillow knew, not even her husband ; and there 
was no particular comfort when my Lady Countess 
descended on her in the first interval of fine weather, 
full of wrath at not having been consulted, and dis- 
charging it in all sorts of predictions as to Cis’s future. 
No honest and loyal husband would have her, after 
being turned loose in such company ; she would be 
corrupted in morals and manners, and a disgrace to the 
Talbots ; she would be perverted in faith, become a 
Papist, and die in a nunnery beyond sea ; or she would 
be led into plots and have her head cut off ; or pressed 
to death by the peine forte et dure. 

Susan had nothing to say to all this, but that her 
husband thought it right, and then had a little vigor- 
ous advice on her own score against tamely submitting 


XXL] A TANGLE. 297 

to any man, a weakness which certainly could not be 
laid to the charge of the termagant of Hardwicke. 

Cicely herself was glad to go. She loved her 
mother witli a romantic enthusiastic affection, missed 
her engaging caresses, and felt her Bridgefield home 
eminently dull, flat, and even severe, especially 'smce 
she had lost the excitement of Humfrey’s presence, 
and likewise her comj)anion Diccon. So she made her 
preparations with a joyful alacrity, wliich secretly 
pained her good foster-parents, and made Susan almost 
ready to reproach her with ingratitude. 

They lectured her, after the fashion of the time, on 
the need of never forgetting her duty to her God in 
her affection to her mother, Susan trusting that she 
would never let herself be led away to the Eomish 
faith, and Kichard warning her strongly against untruth 
and falsehood, though she must be exposed to cruel 
perplexities as to the right — “ But if thou be true to 
man, thou wilt be true to God,” he said. “ If thou be 
false to man, thou wilt soon be false to thy God like- 
wise.” 

“ We will pray for thee, child,” said Susan. “ Do 
thou pray earnestly for thyself that thou mayest ever 
see the right.” 

“ My queen mother is a right pious woman. She 
is ever praying and reading holy books,” said Cis. 
“ Mother Susan, I marvel you, who know her, can speak 
tlms.” 

“ Nay, child, I would not lessen thy love and duty 
to her, poor soul, but it is not even piety in a mother 
that can keep a maiden from temptation. I blame not 
her in warning thee.” 

Eichard himself escorted the damsel ,to her new 
home. There was no preventing their being joined by 


298 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAR 

Babington, wbo, being well acquainted vfith the road, 
and being also known as a gentleman of good estate, 
was able to do much to make their journey easy to 
them, and secure good accommodation for them at the 
inns, though Mr. Talbot entirely baffled his attempts to 
make them his guests, and insisted on bearing a fulJ 
share of the reckoning. Neither did Cicely fulfil hei 
mother’s commission to show herself inclined to accept 
his attentions. If she had been under contrary orders, 
there would have been some excitement in going as far 
as she durst, but the only effect on her was embarrass- 
ment, and she treated Antony with the same shy stiff- 
ness she had shown to Humfrey, during the earlier part 
of his residence at home. Besides, she clung more 
and more to her adopted father, who, now that they 
were away from home and he was about to part with 
her, treated her with a tender, chivalrous deference, 
most winning in itself, and making her feel herself no 
longer a child. 

Arriving at last at Wingfield, Sir Ealf Sadler had 
hardly greeted them before a messenger was sent to 
summon the young lady to the presence of the Queen 
of Scots. Her welcome amounted to ecstasy. The 
Queen rose from her cushioned invalid chair as the 
bright young face appeared at the door, held out her 
arms, gathered her into them, and, covering her with 
kisses, called her by all sorts of tender names in French 
and Scottish. 

“ 0 ma mie, my lassie, ma fille, mine ain wee thing, 
how sweet to have one bairn who is mine, mine ain, 
whom they have not fobbed me of, for thy brother, 
all, thy brother, he hath forsaken me ! He is made of 
the false Darnley stuff, and compacted by Knox and 
Buchanan and the rest, and he will not stand a blast 


A TANGLE. 


299 


XXI.] 

of Queen Elizabeth’s wrath for the poor mother that 
bore him. Ay, he hath betrayed me, and deluded 
me, my child ; he hath sold me once more to the 
English loons ! I am set faster in prison than ever, 
the iron entereth into my souL Thou art but daughtei 
to a captive queen, who looks to thee to be her one 
bairn, one comfort and solace.” 

Cicely responded by caresses, and indeed felt her- 
self more than ever before the actual daughter, as she 
heard with indignation of James’s desertion of his 
mother’s cause ; but Mary, whatever she said herself, 
would not brook to hear her speak severely of him. 
“ The poor laddie,” she said, “ he was no better than 
a prisoner among those dour Scots lords,” and she de- 
scribed in graphic terms some of her own experiences 
of royalty in Scotland. 

The other ladies all welcomed the new-comer as 
the best medicine both to the spirit and body of their 
Queen. She was regularly enrolled among the Queen’s 
maidens, and shared their meals. Mary dined and 
supped alone, sixteen dishes being served to her, both 
on “ fish and flesh days,” and the reversion of these as 
well as a provision of their own came to the higher 
table of her attendants, where Cicely ranked with the 
two Maries, Jean Kennedy, and Sir Andrew Melville. 
There was a second table, at which ate the two secre- 
taries, Mrs. Curll, and Elizabeth Curll, Gilbert’s sister, 
a most faithful attendant on the Queen. As before, 
she shared the Queen’s chamber, and there it was that 
Mary ask^d her, “ Well, mignonne, and how fares it 
with thine ardent suitor? Didst say that he rode 
with thee?” 

“ As far as the Manor gat(}S, madam.” 

" And what said he ? Was he very pressing ?* 


300 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

“ Nay, madam, I was ever with my fathei — Mr. 
Talbot.” 

“ And he keeps the poor youth at arm’s length 
Thine other swain, the sailor, his son, is gone off once 
more to rob the Spaniards, is he not ? — so there is the 
more open field,” 

“ Ay ! but not till he had taught Antony a lesson.” 

The Queen made Cis tell the story of the en- 
counter, at which she was much amused. “So my 
princess, even unknown, can make hearts heat and 
swords ring for her. Well done ! thou art worthy 
to be one of the maids in Perceforest or Amadis de 
Gaul, who are bred in obscurity, and set all the knights 
a sparring together. Tourneys are gone out since my 
poor gude-father perished by mischance at one, or we 
would set thee aloft to be contended for.” 

“ 0 madame mhre, it made me greatly afraid, and 
poor Humfrey had to go off without leave-taking, my 
Lady Countess was so wrathful.” 

“ So my Lady Countess is playing our game, is she 
Backing Babington and banishing Talbot ? Ha, ha,” 
and Mary again laughed with a merriment that rejoiced 
the faithful ears of Jean Kennedy, under her bed- 
clothes, but somewhat vexed Cicely. “ Indeed, madam 
mother,” she said, “if I must wed under my degree, I 
had rather it were Humfrey than Antony Babington.” 

“ I tell thee, simple child, thou shalt wed neither. 
A woman does not wed every man to whom she gives 
a smile and a nod. So long as thou bear’st the name 
of this Talbot, he is a good watch-dog to hinder Bab- 
ington from winning thee : but if my Lady Countess 
choose to send the swain here, favoured by her to pay 
his court to thee, why then, she '-^^es us the best 
chance we have had for many a long day of holding 


XXI.] 


A TANGLE. 


301 


iut-ercoiirse with our friends without, and a hope of 
thee will bind him the more closely.” 

“ He is all yours, heart and soul, already, madam.” 

“ I know it, child, but men are men, and no chains 
are so strong as can be forged by a lady’s lip and eye, if 
she do it cunningly. So said my helle mh'e in France, 
and well do I believe it. Why, if one of the sour- 
visaged reformers who haunt this place chanced to 
have a daughter with sweetness enough to temper the 
acidity, the youth might be throwing up his cap the 
next hour for Queen Bess and the Eeformation, unless 
we can tie hiin down with a silken cable while he is 
in the mind.” 

“ Yea, madam, you who are beautiful and winsome^ 
you can do such things, I am homely and awkward.” 

“ Mort de ma vie, child ! the beauty of the best of 
us is in the man’s eyes who looks at us. ’Tis true, 
thou hast more of the Border lassie than the princess. 
The likeness of some ewe -milking, cheese -making 
sonsie Hepburn hath descended to thee, and hath been 
fostered by country breeding. But thou hast by nature 
the turn of the neck, and the tread that belong to 
our Lorraine blood, the blood of Charlemagne, and 
now that I have thee altogether, see if I train thee not 
so as to bring out the princess that is in thee ; and so, 
good-night, my bairnie, my sweet child ; I shall sleep 
to-night, now that I ll^ve thy warm fresh young cheek 
beside mine. Thou art life to me, my little one.” 


802 


UNKNOWiJ TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTEE XXIL 

TUTBURY, 

James VI. again cruelly tore his mother s heart and 
dashed her hopes by an unfeeling letter, in which he 
declared her incapable of being treated with, since she 
was a prisoner and deposed. The not unreasonable 
expectation, that his manhood might reverse the pro- 
ceedings wrought in his name in his infancy, was 
frustrated. Mary could no longer believe that he was 
constrained by a faction, but perceived clearly that 
he merely considered her as a rival, whose liberation 
would endanger his throne, and that whatever scruples 
he might once have entertained had given way to 
English gold and Scottish intimidation. 

“ The more simple was I to look for any other in 
the son of Darnley and the pupil of Buchanan,” said 
she, “ but a mother’s heart is slow to give up her 
trust.” 

“ And is tliere now no hope ?” asked Cicely. 

“ Hope, child ? Dum spiro, spero. The hope of 
coming forth honourably to him and to Elizabeth is at 
an end. There is another mode of coming forth,” she 
added with a glittering eye, “ a mode which shall make 
them rue that they have driven pat^Shce f o extremity.” 

“ By force of arms ? Oh, madain cried Cicely. 


TUTBUEY. 


303 


xxil] 

“ And wherefore not ? My noble kinsman, Guise, 
is the paramount ruler in France, and will soon have 
crushed the heretics there ; Parma is triumphant in 
the Low Countries, and has only to tread out the last 
remnants of faction with his iron boot. They wait only 
the call, which my motherly weakness has delayed, to 
bring their hosts to avenge my wrongs, and restore 
this island to the true faith. Then thou, child, wilt 
be my heiress. We will give thee to one who will 
worthily bear the sceptre, and make thee blessed at 
home. The Austrians make good husbands, I am told. 
Matthias or Albert would be a noble mate for thee ; 
only thou must be trained to more princely bearing, 
my little home-bred lassie.” 

In spite — nay, perhaps, in consequence — of these 
anticipations, an entire change began for Cicely. It 
was as if all the romance of her princely station had 
died out and the reality had set in. Her freedom was 
at an end. As one of the suite of the Queen of Scots, 
she was as much a prisoner as the rest ; whereas before, 
botli at Buxton and Sheffield, she had been like a dog 
or kitten admitted to be petted and played with, but 
living another life elsewhere, while now there was 
nothing to relieve the weariness and monotony of the 
restraint. 

Hor was the petting what it was at first. Mary 
was far from being in the almost frolicsome mood which 
had possessed her at Buxton ; her hopes and spirits 
had sunk to the lowest pitch, and though she had an 
admirably sweet and considerate temper, and was 
j('arcely ever fretful or unreasonable with her attend- 
ants, still depression, illness, and anxiety could not but 
tell on her mode of dealing with her surroundings 
Sometimes she gave way entirely, and declared she 


304 UNKNOWN TO HISTONY. [cHAP 

should waste away and perish in her captivity, and 
that she only brought misery and destruction on all 
who tried to befriend her ; or, again, that she knew 
that Burghley and Walsingham were determined to 
have her blood. 

It was in these moments that Cicely loved her most 
warmly, for caresses and endearments soothed her, and 
the grateful affection which received them would be 
very sweet. Or in a liigher tone, she would trust 
that, if she weie to perish, she might be a martyr and 
confessor for her Church, though, as she owned, the 
sacrifice would be stained by many a sin ; and she 
betook herself to the devotions which then touched 
her daughter more than in any other respect. 

More often, however, her indomitable spirit resortea 
to fresh schemes, and chafed fiercely and hotly at 
thought of her wrongs ; and this made her the more 
critical of all that displeased her in Cicely. 

Much that had been treated as charming and amus- 
ing when Cicely was her plaything and her visitor was 
now treated as unbecoming English rusticity. The 
Princess Bride must speak French and Italian, perhaps 
Latin ; and the girl, whose literary education had 
stopped short when she ceased to attend Master 
Sniggius’s school, was made to study her Cicero once 
more with the almoner, who was now a French priest 
named De Preaux, while Queen Mary herself heard 
her read French, and, though always good-natured, 
was excruciated by her pronunciation. 

Moreover, Mary was too admirable a needlewoman 
not to wish to make her daughter the same ; whereas 
Cicely’s turn had always been for the department of 
housewifery, and she could make a castle in pastry far 
better than in tapestry ; but where Queen Mary had 


XXII.] TUTBURY. 305 

a whole service of cooks and pantlers of her own, this 
accomplishment was uncalled for, and was in fact 
considered undignified. She had to sit still and learn 
all the embroidery stitches and lace -making arts 
brought by Mary from the Court of France, till her 
eyes grew weary, her heart faint, and her young limbs 
acned for the freedom of Bridgefield Pleasaunce and 
Sheffield Park. 

Her mother sometimes saw her weariness, and 
would try to enliven her by setting her to dance, but 
here poor Cicely’s untaught movements were sure to 
incur reproof ; and even if they had been far' more 
satisfactory to the beholders, what refreshment were 
they in comparison with gathering cranberries in the 
park, or holding a basket for Ned in the apple-tree ? 
Mrs. Kennedy made no scruple of scolding her roundly 
for fretting in a month over what the Queen had borne 
for full eighteen years. 

“ Ah ! ” said poor Cicely, “ but she had always been 
a queen, and was used to being mewed up close ! ” 

And if this was the case at Wingfield, how much 
more was it so at Tutbury, whither Mary was removed 
in January. The space was far smaller, and the rooms 
were cold and damp ; there was much less outlet, the 
atmosphere was unwholesome, and the furniture in- 
sufficient. Mary was in bed with rheumatism almost 
from the time of her arrival, but she seemed thus to 
become the more vigilant over her daughter, and dis- 
tressed by her shortcomings. If the Queen did not 
take exercise, the suite were not supposed to require 
any, aud indeed it was never desired by her elder 
ladies, but to the country maiden it was absolute 
punishment to be thus shut up day after day. Neithei 
Sir Ealf Sadler nor his colleague, Mr. Somer, had 
X 


306 UNKNOWN TO IIISTOKY. [CUAP 

brought a wife to share the charge, so that there was 
none of the neutral ground afforded by intercourse 
wdth the ladies of the Talbot family, and at first the 
only variety Cicely ever had was the attendance at 
chapel on the other side of the court. 

It was remarkable that Mary discouraged all 
proselytising towards the Protestants of her train, and 
even forbore to make any open attempt on her 
daughter’s faith. “ Celib viendrd,” she said to Marie 
de Courcelles. “ The sermons of M. le Pasteur will 
do more to convert her to our side than a hundred 
controversial arguments of our excellent Abbe ; and 
when the good time comes, one High Mass will be 
enough to win her over.” 

“ Alas ! when shall we ever again assist at the 
Holy Sacrifice in all its glory !” sighed the lady. 

“ Ah, my good Courcelles ! of what have you not 
deprived yourself for me ! Sacrifice, ah ! truly you 
share it ! But for the child, it would give needless 
offence and difficulty were she to embrace our holy 
faith at present. She is simple and impetuous, and 
has not yet sufficiently outgrown the rude straight- 
forward breeding of the good housewife. Madam Susan, 
not to rush into open confession of her faith, and then I 
oh the fracas ! The wicked wolves would have stolen 
a precious lamb from M. le Pasteur’s fold ! Master 
Richard would be sent for ! Our restraint would be the 
closer ! Moreover, even when the moment of freedom 
strikes, who knows that to find her of their own reli- 
gion may not win us favour with the English ?” 

So, from whatever motive, Cis remained unmolested 
in her religion, save by the weariness of the contro- 
versial sermons, during which the young lady con- 
trived to abstract her mind pretty comp‘'ete]y. If in 


TUTBUKY. 


307 


xxil] 

good spirits she would construct airy castles for her 
Archduke ; if dispirited, she yearned with a homesick 
feeling for Bridgefield and Mrs. Talbot. There was 
something in the firm sober wisdom and steady kind- 
ness of that good lady which inspired a sense of con- 
fidence, for which no caresses nor brilliant auguries 
could compensate. 

Weary and cramped she was to the point of having 
a feverish attack, and on one slightly delirious night 
she fretted piteously after “ mother,” and shook off the 
Queen’s hand, entreating that “ mother, real mother,” 
would come. Mary was much pained, and declared 
that if the child were not better the next day she should 
have a messenger sent to summon Mrs. Talbot. How- 
ever, she was better in the morning; and the Queen, 
who had been making strong representations of the 
unhealthiiiess and other inconveniences of Tutbury, 
received a promise that she should change her abode 
as soon as Chartley, a house belonging to the young 
Earl of Essex, could be prepared for her. 

The giving away large alms had always been one 
of her great solaces — not that she was often permitted 
any personal contact with the poor : only to sit at a 
window watching them as they flocked into the court, 
to be relieved by her servants under supervision from 
some officer of her warders, so as to hinder any surrep- 
titious communication from passing between them. 
Sometimes, however, the poor would accost her or her 
suite as she rode out ; and she had a great compassion 
for them, deprived, as she said, of the alms of the 
religious houses, and flogged or branded if hunger forced 
them into beggary. On a fine spring day Sir Ealf 
Sadler invited the ladies out to a hawking party on 
the banks of the Dove, with the little sparrow hawks, 


308 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

whose prey was specially larks. Pity for the beautiful 
soaring songster, or for the young ones that might be 
starved in their nests, if the parent birds were killed, 
had not then been thought of. A gallop on the moors, 
though they were strangely dull, gray, and stony, 
was always the best remedy for the Queen’s ailments ; 
and the party got into the saddle gaily, and joyously 
followed the chase, thinking only of the dexterity and 
beauty of the flight of pursuer and pursued, instead 
of the deadly terror and cruel death to which they 
condemned the crested creature, the very proverb for 
joyousness. 

It was during the halt which followed the slaughter 
of one of the larks, and the reclaiming of the hawk, 
that Cicely strayed a little away from the rest of the 
party to gather some golden willow catkins and sprays 
of white sloe thorn wherewith to adorn a beaupot that 
might cheer the dull rooms at Tutbury. 

She had jumped down from her pony for the pur- 
pose, and was culling the branch, when from the copse- 
wood that clothed the gorge of the river a ragged 
woman, with a hood tied over her head, came forward 
with outstretched hand asking for alms. 

“ You may have something from the Queen amm, 
Goody, when I can get back to her,” said Cis, not much 
liking the looks or the voice of the woman. 

“ And have you nothing to cross the poor woman’s 
liand with, fair mistress ?” returned the beggar. “ She 
brought you fair fortune once ; how know you but sho 
can bring you more ?” 

And Cicely recognised the person who had haunted 
her at Sheffield, Tideswell, and Buxton, and whom she 
had heard pronounced to be no woman at all. 

“I need no fortune of your bringing,” she said 


TUTBUEY. 


309 


xj ri.] 

proudly, and trying to get nearer the rest of the party, 
heartily wishing she was on, not off, her little rough pony. 

“ My young lady is proud,” said her tormentor, 
fixing on her the little pale eyes she so much dis- 
liked. “ She is not one of the maidens who would 
thank one who can make or mar her life, and cast 
spells that can help her to a princely husband or leave 
her to a prison.” 

" Let go,” said Cicely, as she saw a retaining hand 
laid on her pony’s bridle ; “ I will not be beset thus.” 

“And this is your gratitude to her who helped you 
to lie in a queen’s bosom ; ay, and who could aid you 
to rise higher or faU lower ?” 

“ I owe nothing to you,” said Cicely, too angry to 
think of prudence. “ Let me go ! ” 

There was a laugh, and not a woman’s laugh. “You 
owe nothing, quoth my mistress ? Not to one who saw 
you, a drenched babe, brought in from the wreck, and 
who gave the sign which has raised you to your present 
honours ? Beware !” 

By this time, however, the conversation had at- 
tracted notice, and several riders were coming towards 
them. 

There was an immediate change of voice from the 
threatening tone to the beggar’s whine ; but the words 
were — “ I must have my reward ere I speak out.” 

“ What is this ? A masterful beggar wife besetting 
Mistress Talbot,” said Mr. Somer, who came first. 

“ I had naught to give her,” said Cicely. 

“ She should have the lash for thus frightening you,” 
said Somer. “Yonder lady is too good to such vaga- 
bonds, and they come about us in swarms. Stand 
back, woman, or it may be the worse for you. Let me 
help you to your horse, Mistress Cicelv.” 


310 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

Instead of obeying, the seeming woman, to gain 
time perhaps, began a story of woe ; and Mr. Somer, 
being anxious to remount the young lady, did not 
immediately stop it, so that before Cis was in her 
saddle the Queen had ridden up, with Sir Ealf Sadler 
a little behind her. There were thus a few seconds 
free, in which the stranger sprang to the Queen’s bridle 
and said a few hasty words almost inaudibly, and as Cis 
thought, in French ; but they were answered aloud in 
English — “ My good woman, I know aU that you can 
teU me, and more, of this young lady’s fortune. Here 
are such alms as are mine to give ; but hold your peace, 
and quit us now.” 

Sir Ealf Sadler and his son-in-law both looked 
suspicious at this interview, and bade one of the 
grooms ride after the woman and see what became of 
her, but the feUow soon lost sight of her in the broken 
ground by the river-side. 

When the party reached home, there was an 
anxious consultation of the inner circle of confidantes 
over Cicely’s story. Neither she nor the Queen had 
the least doubt that the stranger was Cuthbert Lang- 
ston, who had been employed as an agent of hers for 
many years past ; his insignificant stature and colour- 
less features eminently fitting him for it. No con- 
cealment was made now that he was the messenger 
with the beads and brackets, which were explained to 
refer to some ivory beads which had been once placed 
among some spars purchased by the Queen, and which 
Jean had recognised as part of a rosary belonging to 
poor Alison Hepburn, the nurse who had carried the 
babe from Lochleven. This had opened the way to 
the recovery of her daughter. Mary and Sir Andrew 
Melville had always held him to be devotedly faithful, 


XXII.] TUTBUEY. 311 

but there had certainly been something of greed, and 
something of menace in his language which excited 
anxiety. Cicely was sure that his expressions con- 
veyed that he really knew her royal birth, and meant 
to threaten her with the consequences, but the few 
who had known- it were absolutely persuaded that 
this w'as impossible, and believed that he could only 
surmise that she was of more importance -than an 
archer’s daughter. 

He had told the Queen in French that he was in 
great need, and expected a reward for his discretion 
respecting what he had brought her. And when he per- 
ceived the danger of being overheard, he had changed 
it into a pleading, “ I did but tell the fair young lady 
that I could cast a spell that would bring her some 
good fortune. Would her Grace hear it ?” 

So,” said Mary, “ I could but answer him as I 
did, Sadler and Somer being both nigh. I gave him 
my purse, with all there was therein. How much 
was it, Andrew ?” 

“Five golden pieces, besides groats and testers, 
madam,” replied Sir Andrew. 

“ If he come again, he must have more, if it can 
be contrived without suspicion,” said the Queen. “ I 
fear me he may become troublesome if he guess some- 
what, and have to be paid to hold his tongue.” 

“ I dread worse than that,” said JMelville, apart to 
Jean Kennedy; “there was a scunner in his een that 
I mislikit, as though her Grace had offended him. 
And if the lust of the penny-fee hath possessed him, 
’tis but who can bid the highest, to have him fast 
body and soul. Those lads ! those lads ! I’ve seen a 
mony of them. They’ll begin for pure love of the 
Queen and of Holy Church, but ye see, ’tis lying and 


312 UNKNOWN TO HISTORf [CHAP. 

falsehood and disguise that is needed, and one way 
or other they get so in love with it, that they come at 
last to lie to us as well as to the other side, and then 
none kens where to have them ! Cuthherc has been 
over to that wmary Paris, and once a man goes there, 
he leaves his trutl) and honour behind him, and ye 
kenna whether he be serving you, or Queen Elizabeth, 
or the deil himsel’. I wish I could stop that loon’s 
thrapple, or else wot haw much he kens anent oui 
Lady Bride.” 


xxiil] 


THE LOVE TOKEN. 


313 


CHAPTEE XXIIL 

THE LOVE TOKEN. 

“ Yonder woman came to tell this young lady’s 
fortune,” said Sir Ealf, a few days later. " Did she 
guess what I, an old man, have to bode for her !” and 
he smiled at the Queen. “ Here is a token I was 
entreated by a young gentleman to dehver to this 
young lady, with his humble suit that he may pay his 
devoirs to her to-morrow, your Grace permitting.” 

“ I knew not,” said Mary, “ that my women had 
license to receive visitors.” 

“Assuredly not, as a rule, but this young gentle- 
man, Mr. Babington of Dethick, has my Lord and 
Lady of Shrewsbury’s special commendation.” 

“ I knew the young man,” said Mary, with perfectly 
acted heedlessness. “ He was my Lady Shrewsbury’s 
page in Ms boyhood. I should have no objection to 
receive him.” 

“ That, madam, may not be,” returned Sadler. “ I 
am sorry to say it is contrary to the orders of the 
council, but if Mr. and Mrs. Curll, and the fair 
Mistress Cicely, will do me the honour to dine with 
me to-morrow in the hall, we may bring about the 
auspicious meeting my Lady desires.” 

Cicely’s first impulse had been to pout and say she 


814 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

wanted none of Mr. Babington’s tokens, nor bis com- 
pany ; but her mother’s eye held her back, and besides 
any sort of change of scene, or any new face, could not 
but be delightful, so there was a certain leap of the 
young heart when the invitation was accepted for her ; 
and she let Sir Ealf put the token into her hand, and 
a choice one it was. Everybody pressed to look at it, 
whEe she stood blushing, coy and unwEling to display 
the small egg-shaped watch of the kind recently in- 
vented at Nuremberg. Sir Ealf observed that the 
young lady showed a comely shamefast rnaidenliness, 
and therewith bowed himself out of the room. 

Cicely laughed with impatient ^>corn. “ Well 
spoken, reverend seignior,” she said, as she found 
herself alone with the Queen. “ I wish my Lady 
Countess would leave me alone. I am none of hers.” 

“ Nay, mademoiselle, be not thus disdainful,” said 
the Queen, in a gay tone of banter ; " give me here 
this poor token that thou dost so despise, when many 
a maiden would be distraught with delight and grati- 
tude. Let me see it, I say.” 

And as Cicely, restraining with difficulty an im- 
patient, uncourtly gesture, placed the watch in her hand, 
her delicate deft fingers opened the case, disregarding 
both the face and the place for inserting the key ; but 
dealing with a spring, which revealed that the case 
was double, and that between the two thin plates of 
silver which formed it, was inserted a tiny piece of 
tlie thinnest paper, written from corner to corner with 
the smallest characters in cipher. Mary laughed 
joyously and triumphantly as she held it up. “ There, 
mignonne ! What sayest thou to thy token row? 
This is the first secret news I have had from the 
outer world since we came to this weary Tutbury. 


XXIII.] THE LOVE TOKEN. 315 

And oh ! the exquisite jest that my Lady and Sir 
Ealf Sadler should he the hearers ! I always knew 
some good would come of that suitor of thine ! Thou 
must not flout him, my fair lady, nor scowl at him so 
with thy beetle hrows.” 

“ It seems hub hard to lure him on with false 
hopes,” said Cicely, gravely. 

“ Hoots, lassie,” as Dame Jean would say, “ ’tis hut 
joy and delight to men to he thus tickled. ’Tis the 
greatest kindness we can do them thus to amuse 
them,” said Mary, drawing up her head with the 
conscious fascination of the serpent of old Nile, and 
toying the while with the ciphered letter, in eagerness, 
and yet dread, of what it might contain. 

Such things were not easy to make out, even to 
those wEo had the key, and Mary, unwilling to trust 
it out of her own hands, leant over it, spelling it out 
for many minutes, hut at last broke forth into a clear 
ringing burst of girlish laughter and clasped her hands 
together, “ Mignonne, mignonne, it is too rare a jest to 
hold back. Deem not that your Highness stands first 
here ! Oh no ! ’Tis a letter from Bernardo de Mendoza 
with a proposition for whose hand thiiikest thou ? For 
this poor old captive hand ! For mine, maiden. Ay, 
and from whom ? From his Excellency, the Prince of 
Parma, Lieutenant of the Netherlands. Anon will he be 
here with 30,000 picked men and the Spanish fleet; 
and then I shall ride once again at the head of my brave 
men, hear trumpets bray, and see banners fly ! We 
will begin to work our banner at once, child, and let 
Sir Ealf think it is a bed-quilt for her sacred Majesty, 
Elizabeth. Thou look’st dismayed, little maiden.” 

“Spanish ships and men, madam, ah ! and how would 
it be with my father — Mr. and Mrs. Talbot, I mean ?” 


316 UNKNOWN TO IIISTOIIY. [CHAP. 

“Not a hair of their heads shall be touched, child. 
We will send down a chosen troop to protect them, 
with Babington at its head if thou wilt. But,” 
added the Queen, recollecting herself, and perceiving 
that she had startled and even shocked her daughter, 
“it is not to he to-morrow, nor for many a weary 
month. All that is here demanded is whether, all 
being well, he might look for my hand as his guerdon 
Shall I propose thine instead ?” 

“ 0 madam, he is an old man and full of gout !” 

“ Well ! we will not pull caps for him just yet. 
And see, thou must be secret as the grave, child, oi 
thou wilt ruin thy mother. I ought not to have told 
thee, hut the surprise was too much for me, and thou 
canst keep a secret. Leave me now, child, and send 
me Monsieur Nau.” 

The next time any converse was held between 
mother and daughter. Queen Mary said, “ Will it grieve 
thee much, my lassie, to return this bauble, on the 
plea of thy duty to the good couple at Bridgefield?” 

After all Cicely had become so fond of the curious 
and ingenious egg that she was rather sorry to part 
with it, and there was a little dismal resignation in her 
answer, “ I will do your bidding, madam.” 

“ Thou shalt have a better. 1 will write to 
Chateaunay for the choicest that Paris can furnish,” 
said Mary, “ but seest thou, none other mode is so safe 
for conveying an answer to this suitor of mine ! Nay, 
little one, do not fear. He is not at hand, and if he 
be so gout-ridden and stern as I have heard, we will 
find some way to content him and make him do the 
service without giving thee a stepfather, even though 
he be grandson to an emperor.” 

There was something perplexing and diistressing to 


THE LOVE TOKEN. 


XXIII.] 


Sll 


Cis in this sudden mood of exultation at such a suitor. 
However, Parma’s proposal might mean liberty and a 
recovered throne, and who could wonder at the joy 
that even the faintest gleam of light afforded to one 
whose captivity had lasted longer than Cicely’s young 
life ? — and then once more there was an alternation of 
feeling at the last moment, when Cicely, dressed in 
her best, came to receive instructions. 

“ I ken not, I ken not,” said Maiy, speaking the 
Scottish tongue, to which she recurred in her moments 
of deepest feeling, “ I ought not to let it go. I ought 
to tell the noble Prince to have naught to do with a 
being like me. ’Tis not only the jettatum wherewith 
the Queen Mother used to reproach me. Men need 
but bear me good will, and misery overtakes them. 
Death is the best that befalls them ! The gentle 
husband of my girlhood — then the frantic Chastelar, 
my poor, poor good Davie, Darnley, Bothwell, Geordie 
Douglas, young Willie, and again Norfolk, and the 
noble and knightly Don John ! One spark of love 
and devotion to the wretched Mary, and all is over 
with them ! Give me back that paper, child, and 
warn Babington against ever dreaming of aid to a 
wretch like me. I will perish alone ! It is enough ! 
I will drag down no more generous spirits in the 
whirlpool around me.” 

“ Madam ! madam !” exclaimed De Preaux the 
almoner, who was standing, “this is not like your 
noble self. Have you endured so much to be faint- 
hearted when the end is near, and you are made a 
smooth and polished instrument, welded in the fire, for 
the triumph of the Church over her enemies?” 

“Ah, Father!” said the Queen, “how should not 
n.y heart fail me when I think of the many high 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


SIS 


[chap. 


spirits who have fallen for my sake ? Ay, and when 
I look out on yonder peaceful vales and happy home- 
steads, and think of them ravaged by those furious 
Spaniards and Italians, whom my brother of Anjou 
himself called very fiends ! ” 

“ Fiends are the tools of Divine wrath,” returned 
Preaux, “ Look at the profaned sanctuaries and out- 
raged convents on which these proud English have 
waxen fat, and say whether a heavy retribution be not 
due to them.” 

“ Ah, father ! I may be weak, but I never loved 
persecution. King Francis and I were dragged to 
behold the executions at Amboise. That was enough 
for us. His gentle spirit never recovered it, and I — I 
see their contorted visages and forms still in my 
restless nights ; and if the Spanish dogs should deal 
with England as with Haarlem or Antwerp, and all 
through me ! — Oh ! I should be happier dying within 
these walls !” 

“Hay, madam, as Queen you would have the reins 
in your own hand : you could exercise what wholesome 
severity or well-tempered leniency you chose,” urged 
the almoner ; “ it were ill requiting the favour of 
the saints who have opened this door to you at last 
to turn aside now in terror at the phantasy that long 
weariness of spirit hath conjured up before you.” 

So Mary rallied herself, and in five minutes more 
was as eager in giving her directions to Cicely and to 
the Curlls as tliough her heart had not recently failed 
her. 

Cis was to go forth with her chaperons, not by any 
means enjoying the message to Babington, and yet 
unable to help being very glad to escape for ever so 
short a time from the duU prison apartments. There 


XXIII.] THE LOVE TOKEN. 319 

might be no great faith in her powers of diplomacy, 
but as it was probable that Babington would have 
more opportunity of conversing with her than' with 
the Curlls, she was charged to attend heedfuUy to 
whatever he might say. 

Sir Ealfs son-in-law, Mr. Somer, was sent to escort 
the trio to the hall at the hour of noon ; and there, 
pacing the ample chamber, while tlie board at the 
upper end was being laid, were Sir Ealf Sadler and 
his guest Mr. Babington. Antony, was dressed in 
green velvet slashed with primrose satin, setting off his 
good mien to the greatest advantage, and he came up 
with suppressed but rapturous eagerness, bowing low 
to Mrs. Curll and the secretary, but falling on his knee 
to kiss the hand of the dark-browed girl. Her recent 
courtly training made her much less rustically 
awkward than she would have been a few mouths 
before, but she was extremely stiff, and held her head 
as though her ruff were buckram, as she began her 
lesson. “ Sir, I am greatly beholden to you for this 
token, but if it be not sent with the knowledge and 
consent of my honoured father and mother I may not 
accept of it.” 

“ Alas ! that you will say so, fair mistress,” said 
Antony, but he was probably prepared for this re- 
jection, for he did not seem utterly overwhelmed by it. 

“ The young lady exercises a wise discretion,” said 
Sir Ealf Sadler to Mrs. Curll. “ If I had known that 
mine old friend Mr. Talbot of Bridgefield was un- 
favourable to the suit, I would not have harboured 
the young spark, but when he brought my Lady 
Countess’s commendation, I thought all was well.” 

Barbara Curll had her cue, namely, to occupy Sir 
Ealf so as to leave the young people to themselves, so 


320 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap 

she drew him off to tell him in confidence a long and 
not particularly veracious story of the objections of 
the Talbots to Antony Babington; whilst her husband 
engaged the attention of Mr. Somer, and there was a 
space in which, as Antony took back the watch, he 
was able to inquire “Was the egg-shell opened ?” 

“ Ay,” said Cis, blushing furiously and against her 
will, “ the egg was sucked and replenished.” 

“ Take consolation,” said Antony, and as some one 
came near them^ “ Duty and discretion shall, I trust, 
both be satisfied when I next sun myself in the light 
of those lovely eyes.” Then, as the coast became 
more clear, “You are about shortly to move. Chart- 
ley is preparing for you.” 

“ So we are told.” 

“ There are others preparing,” said Antony, bending 
over her, holding her hand, and apparently making 
love to her with all his might. “ Tell me, lady, who 
hath charge of the Queen’s buttery ? Is it faithful 
old Halbert as at Sheffield?” 

“ It is,” replied Cis. 

“Then let him look well at the bottom of each 
barrel of beer supplied for the use of her household. 
There is an honest man, a brewer, at Burton, whom 
Paulett will employ, who will provide that letters be 
sent to and fro. Gifford and Langston, who are both 
of these parts, know him well.” Cis started at the 
name. “Do you trust Langston then?” she asked. 

“Wholly! Why, he is the keenest and ablest of 
us all. Have you not seen him and had speech with 
him in many strange shapes ? He can change his 
voice, and whine like any beggar wife.” 

“ Yea,” said Cis, “ but the Queen and Sir Andrew 
doubted a little if he meant not threats last time we met.” 


Tills i,(.)Vi; 


xxiil] 


“All put on — excellent dissembling to beguile the 
keepers. He told me all,” said Antony, “ and how he 
had to scare thee and change tone suddenly. Why, 
he it is who laid this same egg, and will receive 
it. There is a sworn band, as you know already, who 
will let her know our plans, and be at her com- 
mands through that means. Then, when we have 
done service approaching to be worthy of her, then 
it may be that I shall have earned at least a look or 
sign.” 

“ Alas ! sir,” said Cicely, “ how can I give you 
false hopes ?” For her honest heart burnt to tell the 
poor fellow that she would in case of his success 
be farther removed from him than ever. 

“ What would be false now shall be true then. 
I will wring love from thee by my deeds for her whom 
we both alike love, and then wilt thou be mine own, 
my trae Bride !” 

By this time other guests had arrived, and the 
dinner was ready. Babington was, in deference to the 
Countess, allowed to sit next to his lady-love. She 
found he had been at Sheffield, and had visited Bridge- 
field, vainly endeavouring to obtain sanction to his 
addresses from her adopted parents. He saw how her 
eyes brightened and heard how her voice quivered with 
eagerness to hear of what still seemed home to her, 
and he was pleased to feel himself gratifying her by 
telling her how Mrs. Talbot looked, and how Brown 
Dumpling had been turned out in the Park, and Mr. 
Talbot had taken a new horse, which Ned had in- 
sisted on calling “ Fulvius,” from its colour, for Ned 
was such a scholar that he was to be sent to study at 
Cambridge. Then he would have wandered off to 
little Lady Arbell’s being put under Master Sniggius’i 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORV. 


322 


[CJIAI*. 


tuition, but Cicely would bring him back to Bridge- 
field, and to Ned’s brothers. 

No, the boasted expedition to Spain had not 
begun yet. Sir Francis Drake was lingering about 
Plymouth, digging a ditch, it was said, to bring water 
from Dartmoor. He would never get license to attack 
King Philip on his own shores. Tire Queen knew 
better than to give it. Humfrey and Diccon would 
get no better sport than robbing a ship or two on the 
way to the Netherlands. Antony, for his part, could 
not see that piracy on the high seas was fit work for 
a gentleman. 

“ A gentleman loves to serve his queen and country 
in all places,” said Cicely. 

“ Ah ! ” said Antony, with a long breath, as though 
making a discovery, “ sits the wind in that quarter ? ” 

“ Antony,” exclaimed she, in her eagerness calling 
him by the familiar name of childhood, “ you are in 
error. I declare most solemnly that it is quite another 
matter that stands in your way.” 

“ And you will not tell me wherefore you are thus 
cruel ?” 

“ I cannot, sir. You will understand in time that 
what you call cruelty is true kindness.” 

This was the gist of the interview. All the rest 
only repeated it in one form or another ; and when 
Cis returned, it was with a saddened heart, for she 
could not but perceive that Antony was well-nigh 
crazed, not so much with love of her, as with the con- 
templation of the wrongs of the Church and the Queen, 
whom he regarded with equally passionate devotion, 
and with burning zeal and indignation to avenge 
their sufferings, and restore them to their pristine 
glory. He did, indeed, love her, as he professed to 


THE LOVE TOKEN. 


323 


KXIII.] 

have done from infancy, but as if she were to be his 
own personal portion of the reward. Indeed there was 
magnanimity enough in the youth almost to lose the 
individual hope in the dazzle of the gi’eat victory foi 
which he was willing to devote his own life and happi- 
ness in the true spirit of a crusader. Cicely did not 
fully or consciously realise all this, but she had such 
a glimpse of it as to give her a guilty feeling in con- 
cealing from him the whole truth, which would have 
shown how fallacious were the hopes that her mother 
did not scruple, for her own purposes, to encourage. 
Poor Cicely ! she had not had royal training enough to 
look on aU subjects as simply pawns on the monarch’s 
chess-board ; and she was so evidently unhappy over 
Babington’s courtship, and so Little disposed to enjoy 
her first feminine triumph, that the Queen declared 
that Nature had designed her for the convent she had 
so narrowly missed ; and, valuable as was the intelli- 
gence she had brought, she was never trusted with 
the contents of the correspondence. On the removal 
of Mary to Chart ley the barrel with the false bottom 
came into use, but the secretaries Nau and Curll alone 
knew in full what was there conveyed. Litt'.e more 
was said to Cicely of Babington. 

However, it was a relief when, before the end of 
this summer. Cicely heard of his marriage to a young 
lady selected by the Earl. She hoped it would make 
him forget his dangerous i aclination to herself ; but 
yet there was a little lurking vanity which believed 
that it had been rather a marriage for property’s than 
for love’s sake. 


324 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTEE XXIV. 

A LIONESS aT bay. 

It was in the middle of the summer of 1586 that 
Humfrey and his young brother Eichard, in broad 
grass hats and long feathers, found tliemselves again 
in London, Diccon looking considerably taller and 
leaner than when he went away. For when, after 
many months’ delay, the naval expedition had taken 
place, he had been laid low with fever during the attack 
on Florida by Sir Francis Drake’s little fleet ; and the 
return to England had been only just in time to save 
his life. Though Humfrey had set forth merely as a 
lieuteinnt, he had returned in command of a vessel, and 
stood in high repute for good discipline, readiness of 
resource, and personal exploits. His ship had, how- 
ever, suffered so severely as to be scarcely seaworthy 
when the fleet arrived in Plymouth harbour ; and Sir 
Francis, finding it necessary to put her into dock and 
dismiss her crew, had chosen the young Captain 
Talbot to ride to London with his despatches to her 
Majesty. 

The commission might well delight the brothers, 
wlio were burning to hear of home, and to know how 
it fared with Cicely, having been absolutely without 
intelligence ever since they had sailed from Plymouth 


A LIONESS AT BAY. 


325 


XXIV.] 

in January, since which they had plundered the 
Spaniard both at home and in the West Indies, but 
had had no letters. 

TJiey rode post into London, taking their last change 
of horses at Kensington, on a fine June evening, when 
the sun was mounting high upon the steeple of St. 
Paul’s, and speeding through the fields in hopes of 
being able to reach the Strand in time for supper at 
Lord Shrewsbury’s mansion, which, even in the absence 
of my Lord, was always a harbour for aU of the name 
of Talbot. Nor, indeed, was it safe to be out after 
dark, for the neighbourhood of the city was full of 
roisterers of all sorts, if not of highwaymen and cut- 
purses, who might come in numbers too large even for 
the two young gentlemen and the two servants, who 
remained out of the four volunteers from Bridgefield. 

They were just passing Westminster where tlie 
Abbey, Hall, and St. Stephen’s Chapel, and their pre- 
cincts, stood up in their venerable but unstaiued beauty 
among the fields and fine trees, and some of the 
Westminster boys, flat -capped, gowned, and yellow - 
stockinged, ran out with the cry that always flattered 
Diccon, not to say Humfrey, though he tried to be 
superior to it, “ Mariners ! mariners from the Western 
Main ! Hurrah for gallant Drake ! Down with the 
Don !” For the tokens of the sea, in the form of 
clothes and weapons, were well known and highly 
esteemed. 

Two or three gentlemen who were walking along 
the road turned and looked up, and the young sailors 
recognised in a moment a home face. There was an 
exclamation on either side of “Antony Babington!” 
and “ Humfrey Talbot !” and a ready clasp of the hand 
in right of old companionship. 


326 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY [CHAP. 

“ Welcome home !” exclaimed Antony. “ Is all well 
with you ?” 

“ Eoyally well,” returned Humfiey. “ Know’st thou 
aught of our father and mother ?” 

All was well with them when last I heard ” said 
Antony. 

“ And Cis — my sister I mean ?” said Diccon, putting, 
in his unconsciousness, the very question Humfrey was 
burning to ask. 

“ She is still with the Queen of Scots, at Chartley,’ 
replied Babington. 

“ Chartley, where is that ? It is a new place for 
her captivity.” 

“ ’Tis a house of my Lord of Essex, not far from 
Lie) returned Antony. “ They sent her thither 

this spring, after they had well-nigh slain her with the 
damp and wretched lodgings they provided at Tutbury.” 

“ Who ? Not our Cis ?” asked Diccon. 

“ Nay,” said Antony, “ it hurt not her vigorous 
youth — but I meant the long-suffering princess.” 

“ Hath Sir Ealf Sadler still the charge of her ?” 
inquired Humfrey. 

“ No, indeed. He was too gentle a jailer for the 
Council. They have given her Sir Amias Paulett, a 
mere Puritan and Leicestrian, who is as hard as the 
nether millstone, and well-nigh as dull,” said Babing- 
ton, with a little significant chuckle, which perhaps 
alarmed one of his companions, a small slight man 
with a slight halt, clad in black like a lawyer. “ Mr. 
Babington,” he said, “ pardon me for interrupting 
you, but we shall make Mr. Gage tarry supper 
for us.” 

“ Nay, Mr. Langston,” said Babington, who was in 
high spirits, “ these are kinsmen of your own, sons of 


XXIV.] A UONESS AT BAY. 327 

Mr. Eichard Talbot of Bridgefield, to whom you have 
often told me you were akin.” 

Mr. Langston was thus compelled to come forward, 
shake hands with the young travellers, welcome them 
home, and desire to be commended to their woithy 
parents; and Babington, in the exuberance of li s 
welcome, named his other two companions — Mr. 
Tichborne, a fine, handsome, graceful, and somewhat 
melancholy young man ; Captain Fortescue, a bearded 
moustached bravo, in the height of the fashion, a loug 
plume in his Spanish hat, and his short gray cloak 
glittering with silver lace. Humfrey returned their 
salute, but was as glad as they evidently were when 
they got Babington away with them, and left tl.e 
brothers to pursue their way, after inviting them to 
come and see him at his lodgings as early as possible. 

“ It is before supper,” said Diccon, sagely, “ or 1 
should say Master Antony had been acquainted with 
some good canary.” 

“ More likely he is uplifted with some fancy of his 
own. It may be only with the meeting of me after 
our encounter,” said Humfrey. “ He is a brave fellow 
and kindly, but never did craft so want ballast as does 
that pate of his !” 

“ Humfrey,” said his brother, riding nearer to him, 
“did he not call that fellow in black, Langston?” 

“ Ay, Cuthbert Langston. I have heard of him. 
No good comrade for his weak brain.” 

“Humfrey, it is so, though father would not credit 
me. I knew his halt and his eye — just like the 
venomous little snake that was the death of poor 
Foster. He is the same with the witch woman 
Tibbott, ay, and with her with the beads and bracelets, 
who beset Cis and me at Buxton.” 


328 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [UHAP. 

Young Diccon had proved himself on the voyage 
to have an unerring eye for recognition, and his brother 
gave a low whistle. “ I fear me then Master Antony 
may be running himself into trouble.” 

“ See, they turn in mounting the steps to the uppcu 
fence of yonder house with the deep carved balcony. 
Another has joined them ! I like not his looks. He 
is like one of those hardened cavaliers from the 
Netherlands.” 

“ Ay ! who seem to have left pity and conscience 
behind them there,” said Humfrey, looking anxiously 
up at the fine old gabled house with its projecting 
timbered front, and doubting inwardly whether it 
would be wise to act on his old playfellow’s invitation, 
yet with an almost sick longing to know on what terms 
the youth stood with Cicely. 

In another quarter of an hour they were at the 
gateway of Shrewsbury House, where the porter proved 
to be one of the Sheffield retainers, and admitted them 
joyfully. My Lord Earl was in Yorkshire, he said, 
but my Lord and Lady Talbot were at home, and 
would be fain to see them, and there too was Master 
William Cavendish 

They were handed on into the courtyard, where 
servants ran to take their horses, and as the news 
ran that Master Eichard’s sons had arrived from the 
Indies, Will Cavendish came running down the hall 
steps to embrace them in his glee, while Lord Talbot 
came to the door of the hall to welcome them. These 
great London houses, which had not quite lost their 
names of hostels or inns, did really serve as free lodg- 
ings to all members of the family who might visit 
town, and above all such travellers as these, bringing 
news of grand national acliievements. 


XXIV.] A LIONESS AT BaY. 329 

Very soon after Gilbert’s accession to the heirship, 
quarrels had begun between his wife and her mother 
the Countess. 

Lord Talbot had much of his father’s stately grace, 
and his wife was a finished lady. They heartily 
welcomed the two lads who had grown from boys to 
men. My lady smilingly excused the riding-gear, and 
as soon as the dust of travel had been removed they 
were seated at the board, and called on to tell of the 
gallant deeds in which they had taken part, whilst 
they heard in exchange of Lord Leicester’s doings in 
the Netherlands, and the splendid exploits of the 
Stanleys at Zutphen. 

Lord Talbot promised to take Humfrey to Eich- 
niond the next day, to be presented to her Majesty, 
so soon as he should be equipped, so as not to lose 
his character of mariner, but stiU not to affront her 
sensibilities by aught of uncourtly or unstudied in his 
apparel. 

They confir med what Babingtou had said of the 
Queen of Scots’ changes of residence and of keepers. 
As tc Cicely, they had been lately so little at Sheffield 
that they had almost forgotten her, but they thought 
that if she were still at Chartley, there could be no 
objection to her brothers having an interview with 
her on their way home, if they chose to go out of their 
road for it. 

Humfrey mentioned his meeting with Babington 
in Westminster, and Lord Talbot made some inquiries 
as to his companions, adding that there were strange 
stories and suspicions afloat, and that he feared that 
the young man was disaffected and was consorting with 
Popish recusants. Diccon’s tongue was on the alert with 
his observation, but at a sign from his brother, who did 


330 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAT, 

not wish to get Babington into trouble, he was silent 
Cavendish, however, laughed and said he was for ever 
in Mr, Secretary’s house, and even had a room there. 

Very early the next morning the body servant of 
his Lordship was in attendance with a barber and the 
fashionable tailor of the Court, and in good time Hum- 
frey and Diccon were arrayed in such garments as were 
judged to suit the Queen’s taste, and to become the 
character of young mariners from the West. Huiufrey 
had a dainty jewel of shell-work from the spoils of 
Carthagena, entrusted to him by Drake to present to 
the Queen as a foretaste of what was to come. Lady 
Talbot greatly admired its novelty and beauty, and 
thought the Queen would be enchanted with it, giving 
him a pretty little perfumed box to present it in. 

Lord Talbot, well pleased to introduce his spirited 
young cousins, took them in his boat to Eichmond, 
which they reached just as the evening coolness came 
on. They were told that her Majesty was walking 
in the Park, and thither, so soon as the ruffs had 
been adjusted and the fresh Spanish gloves drawn on, 
they resorted. 

The Queen walked freely there without guards — 
without even swords being worn by the gentlemen in 
attendance — loving as she did to display her confidence 
in her people. No precautions were taken, but they 
were allowed • to gather together on the greensward to 
watch her, as among the beautiful shady trees she 
paced along. 

The eyes of the two youths were eagerly directed 
towards her, as they followed Lord Talbot. Was she 
not indeed the cynosure of all the realm ? Did she 
not hold the heart of every loyal Englishman by an 
invisible rein ? Was not her favour their dream and 


XXIV.] A LIONESS AT BAY. 331 

their reward ? She was a little in advance of hei 
suite. Her hair, of that light sandy tint wdiich is slow 
to whiten, was built up in curls under a rich stiff coif, 
covered with silver lace, and lifted high at the temples. 
From this a light gauze veil hung round her shoulders 
and over her splendid standing ruff, which stood up 
like the erected neck ornaments of some birds, opening 
in front, and showing the lesser ruff or frill encircling 
her throat, and terminating a lace tucker within her 
low-cut boddice. Eich ' necklaces, the jewel of the 
Garter, and a whole constellation of brilliants, decorated 
her bosom, and the boddice of her blue satin dress and 
its sleeves were laced with seed pearls. The waist, a 
very slender one, was encircled with a gold cord and 
heavy tassels, the farthingale spread out its magnificent 
proportions, and a richly embroidered white satin 
petticoat showed itself in front, but did not conceal 
the active, well -shaped feet. There was something 
extraordinarily majestic in her whole bearing, especially 
the poise of her head, which made the spectator never 
perceive how small her stature actually was. Her face 
and complexion, too, were of the cast on which time is 
slow to make an impression, being always pale . and 
fair, with keen and delicately -cut features; so that 
her admirers had quite as much reason to be dazzled 
as when she was half her present age ; nay, perhaps 
more, for the habit of command had added to the 
regality which really was her principal beauty. Sir 
Christo j)her Hatton, with a handsome but very small 
fai'e at the top of a very tall and portly frame, dressed 
in the extreme of foppery, came behind her, and then 
a bevy of ladies and gentlemen. 

As the Talbots approached, she was moving slowly 
on, unusually erect even for her, and her face com« 


332 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAP. 

posed to severe majesty, like that of a judge, the 
tawny eyes with a strange gleam in them fixed on 
some one in the throng on the grass near at hand 
Lord Talbot advanced with a bow so low that ha 
swept the ground with his plume, and while the two 
youths followed his example, Diccon’s quick eye noted 
that she glanced for one rapid second at their weapons, 
then continued her steady gaze, never withdrawing 
it even to receive Lord Talbot’s salutation as he knelt 
before her, though she said, “ We greet you well, my 
good lord. Are not we well guarded, not having one 
man with a sword near me ?” 

“ Here are three good swords, madam,” returned he, 
“ mine own, and those of my two young kinsmen, whom 
I venture to present to your Majesty, as they bear greet- 
ings from your trusty servant. Sir Francis Drake.” 

While he spoke there had been a by-play unper- 
ceived by him, or by the somewhat slow and tardy 
Hatton. A touch from Diccon had made Humfrey 
follow the direction of the Queen’s eye, and they saw 
it was fixed on a figure in a loose cloak strangely 
resembling that which they had seen on the stair of 
the house Babington had entered. They also saw a 
certain quailing and cowering of the form, and a scowl 
on the shaggy red eyebrows, and Irish features, and 
Humfrey at once edged himself so as to come between 
the fellow and the Queen, though he was ready to 
expect a pistol shot in his back, but better thus, was 
his thought, than that it should strike her, — and both 
laid their hands on their swords. 

“ How now ! ” said Hatton, “ young men, yov are 
over prompt. Her Majesty needs no swords. You 
are out of rank. Fall in and do your obeisance.” 

Something in the Queen’s relaxed gaze told Hum* 


A LIONESS AT BAY. 


333 


::xfv.] 

frey that the peril was over, and that he might kneel 
as Talbot named him, explaining his lineage as Eliza- 
beth always wished to have done. A sort of tremor 
passed over her, hut she instantly recalled her attention. 
“ Erom Drake !” she said, in her clear, somewhat shrill 
voice. “ So, young gentleman, you have been with 
the pirate who outruns our orders, and fills our brother 
of Spain with malice such that he would have our life 
by fair or foul means.” 

“ That shall he never do while your Grace has 
English watch-dogs to guard you,” returned Talbot. 

“ The Talbot is a trusty hound by water or by 
land,” said Elizabeth, surveying the goodly proportion, 
of the elder brother. “ Whelps of a good litter, though 
yonder lad be somewhat long and lean. Well, and 
how fares Sir Francis ? Let him make his will, for 
the Spaniards one day will have his blood.” 

“ I have letters and a token from him for your 
Grace,” said Humfrey. 

“ Come then in,” said the Queen. “We will see 
it in the bower, and hear what thou wouldst say.” 

A bower, or small summer-house, stood at the end 
of the path, and here she, took her way, seating herself 
on a kind of rustic throne evidently intended for her, 
and there receiving from Humfrey. the letter and the 
gift, and asking some questions about the voyage ; but 
she seemed preoccupied and anxious, and did not show 
the enthusiastic approbation of her sailors’ exploits 
which the young men expected. After glancing over 
it, she bade them carry the letter to Mr. Secretary 
Walsingham the next day ; nor did she bid the party 
remain to supper; but as soon as half a dozen of her 
gentlemen pensioners, who had been summoned by her 
orders, came up, she rose to return to the palace. 


V 

334 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY, [CHAP, 

Yet, Talbot’s surprise, she gav(5 both the young 
men lier hand to kiss, and even laid it upon Humfrey’s 
freshly -trimmed head, saying, “ You have done good 
service, my brave young spark. Use your eyes more 
than your tongue, and you will do well. We would 
not wish for stauncher bulwarks against traitor- — 
Papist or Spaniard.” 

This was their dismissal. The audience was over, 
and they had to depart. Lord Talbot declaring that 
Ilumfrey had had marvellous good hap, and he had 
seldom seen her Majesty so gracious at a first presenta- 
tion, unless a man was more comely than he could call 
his young cousins. 

“ Methinks she was glad to see our swords,” said 
Diccon. “ There was a scowling fellow she had her 
eye on, just as I have seen Sir Francis keep a whole 
troop of savage Indians in check as we landed on an 
island.” 

Lord l\,lbot laughed rather provokingly, and said, 
“ The Queen hath swords enough at command without 
being beholden to thine, my doughty cousin ! ” 

Diccon was suppressed, and mortified, but he thought 
the more. Hurafrey owned his disappointment at 
more notice not having been taken of his commanders’ 
exploits, and was answered, “ Humour or policy, boy, 
policy or humour — one or both. One day, Drake and 
Hawkins and the rest will be her brave mariners, her 
golden boys ; another, mere pirates and robbers, bring- 
ing the Dons’ wrath down upon us. You must take 
her as you find her, she is but a woman after all ; and 
even now there is said to be a plot — more deadly 
than ever before — wliich the Council are watching 
that they may lay the blame on the right shoulders. - 

Lord Talbot did not, however, know more than 


A LIONESS AT BAY. 


XXIV 1 




that there were flying rumours of a fearful design, that 
the Duke of Parma should land from the Netherlands, 
the Queen be assassinated, and Mary of Scotland 
lil>erated and proclaimed, all at once ; and he marvelled 
at lier residence at Chartley being permitted, since 
it would not be difficult to set it on fire, and carry her 
away in the confusion. He added tliat the whole of 
the country, especially the Londoners, were declaring 
that they should never sleep in peace while she lived, 
and there was nothing but Queen Elizabeth’s life 
between her and the crown. 

“ And that knave meant mischief, and the Queen 
knew it, and bore him down with her eye, just as 
Drake did by the cannibal chief with the poisoned 
arrow,” thought Diccon, but Lord Talbot’s previous 
manner had silenced him effectually. 


336 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

PAUL’S WALK. 

Will Cavendish, who was in training for a statesman, 
and acted as a secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham, 
advised that the letters should be carried to him at 
once that same evening, as he would he in attendance 
on the Queen the next morning, and she would inquire 
for them. 

The great man’s house was not far off, and he walked 
thither with Humfrey, who told him what he had seen, 
and asked whether it ought not at once to be reported 
to Walsingham. 

Will whistled. “ They are driving it very close,” 
he said. “ Humfrey, old comrade, thy brains were 
always more of the order fit to face a tough breeze 
than to meddle with Court plots. Credit me, there is 
cause for what amazed thee. The Queen and her 
Council know what they are about. Risk a little, and 
put an end to all the plottings for ever ! That’s the 
word.” 

“ Risk even the Queen’s life ?” 

Will Cavendish looked sapient, and replied, “We 
of the Council Board know many a thing that looks 
passing strange.” 

Mr. Secretary Walsingham’s town house was, like 


Paul’s walk. 


337 


XXV.] 

Lord Talbot’s, built round a court, across which Caven- 
dish led the way, with the assured air of one used to 
the service, and at home there. The hall was thronged 
with people waiting, but Cavendish passed it, opened 
a little wicket, and admitted his friends into a small 
antnroom, where he bade them remain, while he 
announced them to Sir Francis. 

He disappeared, shutting a door behind him, and 
after a moment’s interval another person, with a brown 
cloak round him, came hastily and stealthily across to 
the door. He had let down the cloak which muffled his 
chin, not expecting the presence of any one, and there 
was a moment’s start as he was conscious of the young 
men standing there. He passed through the door 
instantly, but not before Humfrey had had time to 
recognise in him no other than Cuthbert Langston, 
almost the last person he would have looked for at Sir 
Francis Walsingham’s. Directly afterwards Cavendish 
returned. 

“ Sir Francis could not see Captain Talbot, and 
prayed him to excuse him, and send in the letter.” 

“ It can’t be helped,” said Cavendish, witli his 
youthful airs of patronage. “ He would gladly 
have spoken with you when I told him of you, but 
that Maude is just come on business that may 
not tarry. So you must e’en entrust your packet 
to me.” 

“ Maude,” repeated Humfrey, “ Was that man’s 
name Maude ? I should have dared be sworn that he 
was my father’s kinsman, Cuthbert Langston.” 

“ Very like,” said Will, “ I would dare be sworn to 
nothing concerning him, but that he is one of the 
greatest and most useful villains unhung.” 

So saying. Will Cavendish disappeared with the 
Z 


338 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

letters. He probably bad had a caution administered 
to him, for when he returned he was evidently swell- 
ing with the consciousness of a State secret, which he 
would not on any account betray, yet of the existence 
of which he desired to make his old comrade aware. 

Humfrey asked whether he had told Mr. Secretary 
of the man in Eichmond Park. 

“ Never fear ! he knows it,” returned the budding 
statesman. “ Why, look you, a man like Sir Francis 
has ten thousand means of intelligence that a simple 
mariner like you would never guess at. I thought it 
strange myself when I came first into business of State, 
but he hath eyes and ears everywhere, like the Queen’s 
gown in her picture. Men of the Privy Council, you 
see, must despise none, for the lewdest and meanest 
rogues oft prove those who can do the best service, 
just as the bandy-legged cur will turn the spit, or 
unearth the fox when your gallant hound can do 
nought but bay outside.” 

“ Is this Maude, or Langston, such a cur ? ” 

Cavendish gave his head a shake that expressed 
unutterable things, saying : “Your kinsman, said you ? 
I trust not on the Talbot side of the house ?” 

“ No. On his mother’s side. I wondered the more 
to see him here as he got that halt in the Eising of 
the North, and on the wrong side, and hath ever been 
reckoned a concealed Papist.” 

“Ay, ay. Dost not see, mine honest Humfrey, 
that’s the very point that fits him for our purpose ?” 

“ You mean that he is a double traitor and informer.” 

“We do not use such hard words in the Privy 
CouncE Board as you do on deck, my good friend,” 
said Cavendish. “ We have our secret intf.lligencers, 
you see, aU in the Queen’s service. Foul and dirtj 


PAUL’S WALK. 


339 


XXV.] 

work, but you can’t dig out a fox without soiling of 
fingers, and if there be those that take kindly to the 
work, why, e’en let them do it.” 

“ Then there is a plot ?” 

“ Content you, Humfrey ! You’ll hear enough of it 
anon. A most foul, bloody, and horrible plot, quite 
enough to hang every soul that has meddled in it, and 
yet safe to do no harm — like poor Hal’s blundeibuss, 
which would never go off, except when it burst, and 
blew him to pieces.” 

Will felt that he had said quite enough to impress 
Humfrey with a sense of his statecraft and import- 
ance, and was not sorry for an interruption before he 
sliould have said anything dangerous. It was from 
Frank Pierrepoint, who had been Diccon’s schoolmate, 
and was enchanted to see him. Humfrey was to stay 
one day longer in town in case Walsingham should 
wish to see him, and to show Diccon something of 
London, which they had missed on their way to 
Plymouth. 

St. Paul’s Cathedral was even then the sight that all 
Englishmen were expected to have seen, and the brothers 
took their way thither, accompanied by Frank Pierre- 
point, who took their guidance on his hands. Had the 
lads seen the place at the opening of the century they 
would have thought it a piteous spectacle, for desecra- 
tion and sacrilege had rioted there unchecked, the mag- 
nificent peal of bells had been gambled away at a single 
throw of the dice, the library had been utterly destroyed, 
the magnificent plate melted up, and what covetous 
fanaticism had spared had been further ravaged by a 
terrible fire. At this time Bishop Bancroft had done 
his. utmost towards reparation, and the old spire had 
been replaced by a wooden one ; but there vras much 


340 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

of ruin and decay visible all around, wliere stood the 
famous octagon building called Paul’s Cross, wliere 
outdoor sermons were preached to listeners of all ranks. 
This was of wood, and was kept in moderately good 
repair. Beyond, the nave of the Cathedral stretched 
its length, the greatest in England. Two sets of door? 
immediately opposite to one another on the north and 
south sides had rendered it a thoroughfare in very early 
times, in spite of the endeavours of the clergy ; and at 
this time “ Duke Humfrey’s Walk,” from the tomb of 
Duke Humfrey Stafford, as the twelve grand Norman 
bays of this unrivalled nave were called, was the prime 
place for the humours of London ; and it may be feared 
that this, rather than the architecture, was the chief 
idea in the minds of the youths, as a babel of strange 
sounds fell on their ears, “ a still roar like a humming 
of bees,” as it was described by a contemporary, or, as 
Humfrey said, like the sea in a great hollow cave. A 
cluster of choir-boys were watching at the door to fall 
on any one entering with spurs on, to levy their spur 
money, and one gentleman, whom they had thus 
attacked, was endeavouring to save his purse by call- 
ing on the youngest boy to sing his gamut. 

Near at hand was a pillar, round which stood a set 
of men, some rough, some knavish-looking, with the 
blue coats, badges, short swords, and bucklers carried 
by serving-men. Tliey were waiting to be hired, as if 
in a statute fair, and two or three loud-voiced bargains 
were going on. In the middle aisle, gentlemen in all 
the glory of plumed hats, jewelled ears, ruffed necks, 
Spanish cloaks, silken jerkins, velvet hose, and be-rosed 
shoes, were marching up and down, some attitudinising 
to show their graces, some discussing the news of the 
day, for “Paul’s Walk” was the Bond Street, the Row, 


Paul’s walk. 


341 


XXV.] 

the Tattersall’s, the Club of London. Twelve scriveners 
had their tables to act as letter-writers, and sometimes 
as legal advisers, and great amusement might be had 
by those who chose to stand listening to the blundering 
directions of their clients. In the side aisles, horse- 
deaUng, merchants’ exchanges, everything imaginable in 
the way of traffic was going on. Disreputable-looking 
men, who there were in sanctuary from their creditors, 
there lurked around Humfrey Stafford’s tomb ; and 
young Pierrepoint’s warning to guard their purses 
was evidently not wasted, for a country fellow, who 
had just lost his, was loudly demanding justice, and 
getting jeered at for his simplicity in expecting to 
recover it. 

“ Seest thou this ? ” said a voice close to Humfrey, 
and he found a hand on his arm, and Babington, in 
the handsome equipment of one of the loungers, close 
to him. 

“ A sorry sight, that would grieve my good mother,” 
returned Humfrey. 

“My Mother, the Church, is grieved,” responded 
Antony. “ This is what you have brought us to, for 
your so-called religion” he added, ignorant or oblivious 
that these desecrations had been quite as shocking 
before the Pieformation. “ All will soon be changed, 
however,” he added. 

“ Sir Thomas Gresham’s New Exchange has cleared 
off some of the traffic, they say,” returned Humfrey. 

“ Pshaw ! ” said Antony ; “ I meant no such folly. 
That were cleansing one stone while the whole house 
is foul with shame. No. There shall be a swift 
vengeance on these desecrators. The purifier shall 
come again, and the glory and the beauty of the true 
Faith shall be here as of old, when our ffithers bowed 


342 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAT. 

before the Holy Eood, instead of tearing it down.” 
His eye glanced with an enthusiasm which Hiimfrey 
thought somewhat wild, and he said, “ Wliist ! these 
are not things to be thus spoken of.” 

“All is safe,” said Babington, drawing him within 
shelter of the chantry of Sir Jolm Beauchamp’s tomb. 
“Never heed Diccon — Pierrepoint can guide him,” 
and Humfrey saw their figures, apparently absorbed in 
listening to the bidding for a horse. “ I have things 
of moment to say to thee, Humfrey Talbot. We hate 
been old comrades, and had that childish emulation 
which turns to love in manhood in the face of perils.” 

Humfrey, recollecting how they had parted, held 
out his hand in recognition of the friendliness. 

“ I would fain save thee,” said Babington. “ Heretic 
and rival as thou art, I cannot but love thee, and I 
would have thee die, if die thou must, in honourable 
fight by sea or land, rather than be overtaken by the 
doom that will fall on all who are persecuting our 
true and lawful confessor and sovereign.” 

“ Gramercy for thy good will, Tony,” said Humfrey, 
looking anxiously to see wlmther his old companion 
was in his right mind, yet remembering what had been 
said of plots. 

“ Thou deem’st me raving,” said Antony, smiling 
at the perplexed countenance before him, “ but thou 
wilt see too late that I speak sooth, when the armies 
of the Church avenge the Name that has been pro- 
faned among you !” 

“ The Spaniards, I suppose you mean,” said Hum- 
frey coolly. “ You must be far gone indeed to hope 
to see those fiends turned loose on this peaceful land, 
but by God’s blessing we have kept them aloof before^ 
I trust we may again.” 


XXV.] Paul’s walk. 343 

“ You talk of God’s blessing. Look at His House,” 
said Babington. 

“ He is more like to bless honest men who fight 
for their Queen, their homes and hearths, than traitors 
wliD would bring in slaughterers and butchers to work 
their will ! ” 

“ His glory is worked through judgment, and thus 
must it begin!” returned the young man. “But I 
would save thee, Humfrey,” he added. “Go thou 
back to Plymouth, and be warned to hold aloof from 
that prison where the keepers will meet their fit 
doom ! and the captive will be set free. Thou dost 
not believe,” he added. “ See here,” and drawing into 
the most sheltered part of the chantry, he produced 
from his bosom a picture in the miniature style of the 
period, containing six heads, among which his own 
was plainly to be recognised, and likewise a face which 
Humfrey felt as if he should never forget, that which 
he had seen in Eichmond Park, quailing beneath the 
Queen’s eye. Bound the picture was the motto — 

“ Hi mihi sunt comites quos ipsa pericula jungunt!^ 

“ I tell thee, Humfrey, thou wilt hear — if thou dost 
five to hear — of these six as having wrought the 
greatest deed of our times I” 

“ May it only be a deed an honest man need not be 
ashamed of,” said Humfrey, not at all convinced of his 
friend’s sanity. 

“ Ashamed of I” exclaimed Babington. “It is blest, 
I tell thee, blest by holy men, blest by the noble and 
suffering woman who wiU thus be delivered from her 
martyrdom.” 

“ Babington, if thou talkest thus, it will be my duty 
to have tliee put in ward,” said Humfrey. 


344 UNKNOVN TO HISIOKV. [CHAP. 

Antony lauglied, and there was a triumphant ring 
very like insanity in his laughter. Humfrey, with a 
moment’s idea that to hint that the conspiracy was 
known would blast it at once, if it were real, said. “ I 
see not Cuthhert Langston among your six. Know 
you, I saw him only yestereven going into Secretary 
Walsingham’s privy chamber.” 

“Was he so?” answered Bahington. “Ha! ha! 
he holds them all in play till the great stroke be 
struck 1 Why 1 am not I myself in Walsingham’s 
confidence? He thuiketh that he is about to send me 
to France to watch the League. Ha ! ha 1” 

Here Humfrey’s other companions turned hack in 
search of him ; Bahington vanished in the crowd, he 
hardly knew how, and he was left in perplexity and 
extreme difficulty as to what was his duty as friend or 
as subject. If Bahington were sane, there must be 
a conspiracy for killing the Queen, bringing in the 
Spaniards and hberatmg Mary, and he had expressly 
spoken of having had the latter lady’s sanction, while 
the sight of the fellow in Eichmond Park gave a colour 
of probability to the guess. Yet the imprudence and 
absurdity of having portraits taken of six assassins 
before the blow was struck seemed to contradict all 
the rest. On the other hand, Cavendish had spoken of 
having aU the meshes of the web in the hands of the 
Council ; and Langston or Maude seemed to be trusted 
by both parties. 

Humfrey decided to feel his way with Will Caven- 
dish, and that evening spoke of having met Bahington 
and having serious doubts whether he were in his 
right mind. Cavendish laughed, “ Poor wretch 1 1 could 
pity him,” he said, “though his plans be wicked enough 
to merit no compassion. Nay, never fear, Humfrey. 


Paul’s walk. 


345 


.KXV.] 

All were overthrown, did I speak openly, l^ay, to uttei 
one word would ruin me for ever. ’Tis quite suffi- 
cient to say that he and his fellows are only at large 
til] ]\Ir. Secretary sees fit, that so his grip may be the 
more sure.” 

Humfrey saw he was to he treated with no confi- 
dence, and this made him the more free to act. There 
were many recusant gentlemen in the neighbourhood of 
Chartley, and an assault and fight there were not im- 
probable, if, as Cavendish hinted, there was a purpose 
of letting the traitors implicate themselves in the 
largest numbers 'and as fatally as, possible. On the 
other hand, Babington’s hot head might only fancy he 
had authority from the Queen for his projects. If, 
through Cicely, he could cpnvey the information to 
Mary, it might save her from even appearing to be 
cognisant of these wild schemes, whatever they might 
be, and to hint that they were known was the surest 
way to prevent their taking effect. Any way, Hum- 
frey’s heart was at Chartley, and every warning he had 
received made him doubly anxious to be there in per- 
son, to be Cicely’s guardian in case of whatever dangei 
might threaten her. He blessed the fiction which still 
represented him as her brother, and wliich must open a 
way for him to see her, but he resolved not to take 
Diccon thither, and parted with him when the roads 
diverged towards Lichfield, sending to his father a 
letter which Diccon was to deliver only into his own 
hand, with full details of all he had seen and heard, 
and his motives for repairing to Chartley. 

“Shall I see my little Cis ?” thought he. “And 
even if she play the princess to me, how will she meet 
me ? She scorned me even when she was at home 
How will it be now when she he»s been for well 


346 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

nigh a year in this Queen’s training ? Ah ! she will 
he taught to despise me ! Heigh ho ! At least she 
may he in need of a true heart and strong arm to 
guard her, and they shall not fail her.” 

Will Cavendish, in the plenitude of the official im- 
portance with which he liked to dazzle his old play- 
fellow, had offered him a pass to facilitate his entrance, 
and he found reason to he glad that he had accepted 
it, for there was a guard at the gate of Chartley Park, 
and he was detained there while his letter was sent up 
for inspection to Sir Amias Paulett, who had for the 
last few months acted as warder to the Queen. 

However, a friendly message came hack, inviting 
him to ride up. The house — though called a castle — 
had been rebuilt in hospitable domestic style, and 
looked much less like a prison tnan Sheffield Lodge, 
but at every enclosure stood yeomen who challenged the 
passers-by, as though this were a time of alarm. How- 
ever, at the hall-door itself stood Sir Amias Paulett, 
a thin, narrow-browed, anxious-looking man, with the 
stiffest of ruffs, over which hung a scanty yellow beard. 

“ Welcome, sir,” he said, with a nervous anxious 
distressed manner. “ Welcome, most welcome. You 
will pardon any discourtesy, sir, but these are evil 
times. The son, I think, of good Master Eichard 
Talbot of Bridgefield ? Ay, I would not for worlds 
have shown any lack of hospitality to one of Ids family. 
It is no want of respect, sir. No ; nor of my Lord’s 
house ; but these are ill days, and with my charge, sir 
— if Heaven itself keep not the house — who knows 
what may chance or what may be laid on me ?” 

“I understand,” said Humfrey, smiling. “I was 
bred close to Sheffield, and hardly k}iew what ’twas to 
live beyond watch and ward.” 


XXV.J PAUL’S WALK. 347 

Yea !” said Paulett, shaking his head. “ You 
come of a loyal house, sir; but even the good Earl 
was less exercised than I am in the charge of this 
same lady. But I am glad, glad to see you, sir. And 
you would see your sister, sir ? A modest young lady, 
and not indevout, though I have sometimes seen her 
sleep at sermon. It is well that the poor maiden 
should see some one well affected, for she sitteth in the 
very gate of Babylon ; and with respect, sir, I marvel 
that a woman, so godly as Mistress Talbot of Bridge- 
field is reported to he, should suffer it. However, I do 
my poor best, under Heaven, to hinder the faithful of 
the household from being tainted. I have removed 
Pr^aux, who is well known to be a Popish priest in 
disguise, and thus he can spread no more of his errors. 
Moreover, my chaplain. Master Blunden, with other 
godly men, preaches three times a week against Eomish 
errors, and all are enforced to attend. May their ears 
be opened to the truth ! I am about to attend this 
lady on a ride in the Park, sir. It might — if she be 
willing — be arranged that your sister, Mistress Talbot, 
should spend the time in your company, and methinks 
the lady will thereto agree, for she is ever ready to 
show a certain carnal and worldly complaisance to the 
wishes of her attendants, and I have observed that she 
greatly affects the damsel, more, I fear, than may be foi 
the eternal welfare of the maiden’s souL** 


348 


UNKNOWN TO HIST OB Y. 


(chap. 


CHAPTER XXVL 

IN THE WEB. 

It was a beautiful bright summer clay, and Queen 
Mary and some of her train were preparing for their 
ride. The Queen was in high spirits, and that wonder- 
ful and changeful countenance of hers was beaming 
with anticipation and hope, while her demeanour was 
altogether delightful to every one who approached her. 
She was adding some last instructions to liau, who was 
writing a let'^er for her to the French ambassador, and 
Cicely stood by her, holding her little dog in a leash, 
and looking somewhat anxious and wistful. There was 
more going on round the girl than she was allowed to 
understand, and it made her anxious and uneasy. She 
knew that the correspondence through the brewer was 
actively carried on, but she was not informed of what 
passed. Only she was aware that some crisis must be 
expected, for her mother was ceaselessly restless and 
full of expectation. She had put all her jewels and 
valuables into as small a compass as possible, and 
talked mofh than ever of her plans for giving hei 
daughter either to the Archduke Matthias, or to some 
great noble, as if the English crown were already within 
her grasp. Anxious, curious, and feeling injured by 
the want of confidence, yet not daring to complain 


IN THE WEB. 


349 


xxvl] 

Cicely felt almost fretful at her mother’s buoyancy, 
but she had been taught a good many lessons in the 
past year, and one of them was that she might indeed 
be caressed, but that she must show neither humour 
nor will of her own, and the least presumption in in- 
quiry or criticism was promptly quashed. 

There was a knock at the door, and the usher 
announced that Sir Amias Paulett prayed to speak 
with her Grace. Her eye glanced round with the 
rapid emotion of one doubtful whether it were for weal 
or woe, yet with undaunted spirit to meet either, and 
as she granted her permission, Cis heard her whisper to 
Hau, “ A rider came up even now ! ’Tis the tidings ! 
Are the Catholics of Derby in the saddle ? Are the 
ships on the coast ? ” 

In came the tall old man with a stiff reverence : 
“ Madam, your Grace’s horses attend you, and I have 
tidings ” — (Mary started forward) — “ tidings for this 
young lady. Mistress Cicely Talbot. Her brother is 
arrived from the Spanish Main, and requests permission 
to see and speak with her.” 

Eadiance flashed out on Cicely’s countenance as 
excitement faded on that of her mother : “ Humfrey ! 
O madam, let me go to him ! ” she entreated, with a 
spring of joy and clasped hands. 

Mary was far too kind-hearted to refuse, besides 
to have done so would have excited suspicion at a 
perilous moment, and the arrangement Sir Amias pro- 
posed was quickly made. Mary Seaton was to attend 
the Queen in Cicely’s stead, and she was allowed to 
hurry downstairs, and only one warning was possible : 

Go then, poor child, take thine holiday, only bear in 
mind what and who thou art.” 

Yet the words had scarce died on her ears before 


350 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

she was oblivious of all save that it was a familial 
home figure who stood at the bottom of the stairs, one 
of the faces she trusted most in all the world which 
beamed out upon her, the hands which she know 
would guard her through everything were stretched 
out to her, the lips with veritable love in them kissed 
the cheeks she did not withhold. Sir Amias stood by 
and gave the kindest smile she had seen from him. 
quite changing his pinched features, and he proposea 
to the two young people to go and walk in the garden 
together, letting them out into the square walled 
garden, very formal, but very bright and gay, and 
with a pleached alley to shelter them from the sun. 

“Good old gentleman!” exclaimed Humfrey, hold- 
ing tlie maiden’s hand in his. “ It is a shame to win 
such pleasure by feigning.” 

“As for that,” sighed Cis, “I never know what 
is sooth here, and what am I save a living lie myself? 
0 Humfrey ! I am so weary of it all.” 

“ Ah I would that I could bear thee home with 
me,” he said, little prepared fur this reception. 

“Would that thou couldst I 0 that I were indeed 
thy sister, or that the writing in my swaddling bands 
had been washed out ! — Nay,” catching back her words, 
“ I meant not that 1 I would not but belong to the 
dear Lady here. She says I comfort her more than 
any of them, and oh 1 she is — she is, there is no tell- 
ing how sweet and how noble. It was only that the 
sight of thee awoke the yearning to be at home with 
mother and with father. Forget my folly, Humfrey.” 

“ I cannot soon forget that Bridgefield seems to 
thee thy true home, he said, putting strong restraint on 
himself to say and do no more, while his heart throbbed 
with a violence unawakened by storm or Spaniard. 


XXVI, 1 


IN THE WEB. 


351 


“ Tell me of them all,” she said. “ I have heard 
naught of them since we left Tuthury, where at least 
we were in my Lord’s house, and the dear old silver 
dog was on every sleeve. Ah ! there he is, the trusty 
rogue.” 

And snatching up Humfrey’s hat, which was 
fastened with a brooch of his crest in the fashion of 
the day, she kissed the familiar token. Then, how- 
ever, she blushed and drew herself up, remembering 
the caution not to forget who she was, and with an 
assumption of more formal dignity, she said, *' And how 
fares it with the good Mrs. Talbot ?” 

“ Well, when I last heard,” said Humfrey, “ but I 
have not been at home. I only know what Will 
Cavendish and my Lord Talbot told me. I sent 
Diccon on to Bridgefield, and came out of the way to 
see you, lady,” he concluded, wdth the same regard to 
actual circumstances that she had shown. 

“ Oh, that was good !” she whispered, and they both 
seemed to feel a certain safety in avoiding personal 
subjects. Humfrey had the history of his voyage to 
narrate — to tell of little Diccon’s gallant doings, and 
to exalt Sir Francis Drake’s skill and bravery, and at 
last to let it ooze out, under Cis’s eager questioning, 
tliat when his captain had died of fever on the His- 
paniola coast, and they had been overtaken by a 
tornado. Sir Francis had declared tliat it was Hum- 
frey’s skill and steadfastness which had saved the ship 
and crew. 

“ And it was that tornado,” he said, “ which 
stemmed the fever, and saved little Diccon’s life. 
Oh ! when he lay moaning below, then was the time 
to long for my mother.” 

Time sped on till the great hall clock made Cicely 


352 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

look up and say she feared that the rideis would soon 
return, and then Humfrey knew that he must make 
sure to speak the words of warning he came to utter. 
He told, in haste, of his message to Queen Elizabeth, 
and of his being sent on to Secretary Walsingham, 
adding, " But I saw not the great man, for he was 
closeted — with whom think you? Iso other than 
Cuthbert Langston, whom Cavendish called by another 
^ctme. It amazed me the more, because I had two 
days before met him in Westminster with Antony 
Babington, who presented him to me by his own name.” 

“ Saw you Antony Babington ?” asked Cis, raising 
her eyes to his face, but looking uneasy. 

“ Twice, at Westminster, and again in Paul’s Walk. 
Had you seen him since you have been here ?” 

“ Not here, but at Tutbury. He came once, and I 
was invited to dine in the hall, because he brought 
recommendations from the Countess.” There was a 
pause, and then, as if she had begun to take in the 
import of Humfrey’s words, she added, “What said 
you ? That Mr. Langston was going between him and 
Mr. Secretary?” 

“Not exactly that,” and Humfrey repeated with 
more detail what he had seen of Langston, forbearing 
to ask any questions which Cicely might not be able 
to answer with honour; but they had been too much 
together in childhood not to catch one another’s mean- 
ing with half a hint, and she said, “ I see why you 
came here, Humfrey. It was good and true and kind, 
befitting you. I will tell the Queen. If Langston be 
in it, there is sure to be treachery. But, indeed, I 
know nothing or well-nigh nothing.” 

“ I am glad of it,” fervently exclaimed Humfrey. 

“ No ; I only know that she has high hopes, and 


XXVI.] IN THE WEB. 353 

tl links that the term of her captivity is well-nigh over, 
B.it it is Madame de Conrcelles whom she trusts, not 
me,” said Cicely, a little hurt. 

“ So is it much better for thee to know as little as 
possible,” said Humfrey, growing intimate in tone 
again in spite of himself. “ She hath not changed 
tliee much, Cis, only thou art more grave and womanly, 
ay, and thou art taller, yea, and thinner, and paler, as I 
fear me thou mayest well be.” 

“ Ah, Humfrey, ’tis a poor joy to be a princess in 
prison ! And yet I shame me that I long to be away. 
Oh no, I would not. Mistress Seaton and Mrs. Curll 
and the rest might be free, yet they have borne this 
durance patiently aU these years — and I think — I 
think she loves me a little, and oh ! she is hardly used. 
Humfrey, what think’st thou that Mr. Langston meant ? 
I wot now for certain that it was he who twice came 
to beset us, as Tibbott the huckster, and with the beads 
and bracelets ! They aU deem him a true friend to 
my Queen.” 

“ So doth Babington,” said Humfrey, curtly. 

“ Ah ! ” she said, with a little terrified sound of 
conviction, then added, “ What thought you of Master 
Babington ?” 

“ That he is half-crazed,” said Humfrey. 

“We may say no more,” said Cis, seeing a servant 
advancin" from the house to tell her that the riders 

O 

were returning. “ Shall I see you again, Humfrey ?” 

“ If Sir Amias should invite me to lie here to-night, 
and remain to-morrow, since it will be Sunday.” 

“At least I shall see you in the morning, ere you de- 
part,” she said, as with unwilling yet prompt steps she 
returned to the house, Humfrey feeling that she was 
indeed his little Cis, yet that some change had come over 
2 A 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


354 


[CHA?. 


ber, not so mncli altering her, as developing the capa- 
bilities he had always seen. 

For herself, poor child, her feelings were in a strange 
turmoil, more than usually conscious of that dual exist- 
ence which had tormented her ever since she had been 
made aware of her true birth. Moreover, she had a 
sense of impending danger and evil, and, by force of con- 
trast, the frank, open-hearted manner of Humfrey made 
her the more sensible of being kept in the dark as to 
serious matters, while outwardly made a pet and play- 
thing by her mother, “just like Bijou,” as she said to 
herself. 

“ So, little one,” said Queen Mary, as she returned, 
“ thou hast been revelling once more in tidings of 
Sheffield ! How long will it take me to polish away 
the dulness of thy clownish contact ? ” 

“ Humfrey does not come from home, madam, but 
from London. Madam, let me tell you in your 
ear ■” 

]\Iary’s eye instantly took the terrified alert ex- 
pression which had come from many a shock and 
alarm. “ What is it, child ? ” she asked, however, in 
a voice of affected merriment. “ I wager it is that he 
has found his true Cis. Nay, wliisper it to me, if it 
touch thy silly little heart so deeply.” 

Cicely knelt down, the Queen bending over her, while 
she murmured in her ear, “ He saw Cuthbert Langston, 
by a feigned name, admitted to Mr. Secretary Walsing- 
ham’s privy chamber.” 

She felt the violent start this information caused, 
but the command of voice and countenance was perfect. 
“ What of that, mignonne ? ” she said. “ What knoweth 
he of this Langston, as thou callest him ?” 

“He is my — no — his father’s kinsman, madam, 


XXVI.] 


IN THE WEB. 


855 . 


and is known to be but a plotter. Oh, surely, he is 
not in your secrets, madam, my mother, after that 
day at Tutbury ? ” 

“ Alack, my lassie, Gifford or Babingtou answered 
for him,” said the Queen, “ and he kens more than I 
could desire. But this Humfrey of thine ! How came 
he to blunder out such tidings to thee ?” 

“ It was no blunder, madam. He came here of 
purpose.” 

“ Sure,” exclaimed Mary, “ it were too good to hope 
that he hath become well affected. He — a sailor of 
Drake’s, a son of IMaster Eichard ! Hath Babington 
won him over ; or is it for thy sake, child ? For I 
bestowed no pains to cast smiles to him at Sheffield, 
even had he come in my way.” 

“ I think, madam,” said Cicely, “ that he is too loyal- 
hearted to bear the sight of treachery without a word 
of warning.” 

“ Is he so ? Then he is the first of his nation who 
hatli been of such a mind ! Hay, micjnonne, deny not 
tliy conquest. This is thy work.” 

“ I deny not that — that I am beloved by Humfrey,” 
said Cicely, “ for I have known it all my life ; but that 
goes for naught in what he deems it right to do.” 

“ There spoke so truly Mistress Susan’s scholar that 
thou makest me laugh in spite of myself and all the 
rest. Hold him fast, my maiden ; think what thou 
wilt of his service, and leave me now, and send Melville 
and CurU to me.” 

Cicely went away full of that undefined discomfort 
experienced by generous young spirits when their elders, 
more worldly-wise (or foolish), fail even to comprehend 
the purity or loftiness of motive in which they them- 
selves thoroughly believe. Yet, though she had in- 


356 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAP 

finitely more faith in Humfrey’s affection than she had 
in that of Bahington, she had not by any means the 
same dread of being used to bait the hook for him, 
partly because she knew his integrity too well to expect 
to shake it, and partly because he was perfectly aware 
of her real birth, and could not be gulled with such 
delusive hopes as poor Antony might once have been. 

Humfrey meantime was made very welcome by Sir 
Amias Paulett, who insisted on his spending the next 
day, Sunday, at Chartley, and made him understana 
that he was absolutely welcome, as having a strong 
arm, stout heart, and clear brain used to command. 
“ Trusty aid do I need,” said poor Sir Amias, “ if ever 
man lacked an arm of flesh. The Council is putting 
more on me than ever man had to bear, in an open 
Xjlace like this, hard to be defended, and they will 
not increase the guard lest they should give the alarm, 
forsooth ! ” 

“What is it that you apprehend?” inquired 
Humfrey. 

“ There’s enough to apprehend when all the hot- 
headed Papists of Stafford and Derbyshire are waiting 
the signal to fire the outhouses and carry off this lady 
under cover of the confusion. Mr. Secretary swears 
they will not stir till the signal be given, and that it 
never will ; but such sort of fellows are like enough to 
mistake the sign, and the stress may come through 
their dillydallying to make all sure as they say, and 
then, if there be any mischance, I shall be the one to 
bear the blame. Ay, if it be their own work !” he 
added, speaking to himself, “ Murder under trust ! 
That would serve as an answer to foreign princes, and 
my head would have to pay for it, however welcome it 
might be ! So, good Mr. Talbot, supposing any alarm 


XXVI.] IN THE WEB. 357 

should arise, keep you close to the person of tliis lady, 
for there he those who would make the fray a coloui 
for taking her life, under pretext of hindering her from 
being carried off” 

It was no wonder that a warder in such circum- 
stances looked harassed and perplexed, and showed 
himself glad of being joined by any ally whom he could 
trust. In truth, harsh and narrow as he was, Paulett 
was too good and rehgious a man for the task that had 
been thrust on him, where loyal obedience, sense of 
expediency, and even religious fanaticism, were aU in 
opposition to the primary principles of truth, mercy, 
and honour. He was, besides, in constant anxiety, 
living as he did between plot and counterplot, and with 
the certainty that emissaries of the Council surrounded 
him who would have no scruple in taking Mary’s life, 
and leaving him to bear the blame, when Elizabeth 
would have to explain the deed to the other sovereigns 
of Europe. He disclosed almost aU this to Humfrey, 
whose frank, trustworthy expression seemed to move 
him to unusual confidence. 

At supper -time another person appeared, whom 
Humfrey thought he had once seen at Sheffield — a thin, 
yeUow- haired and bearded man, much marked with 
smallpox, in the black dress of a lawyer, who sat above 
the household servants, though below the salt. Paulett 
once drank to him with a certain air of patronage, 
calling him Master Phillipps, a name that came as a 
revelation to Humfrey. Plihlipps was the decipherer 
who had, he knew, been employed to interpret Queen 
Mary’s letters after the Norfolk plot. Were there, 
then, fresh letters of that unfortunate lady in his hands, 
or were any to be searched for and captured ? 


358 


UNKIJOWH TO HISTOfiY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

THE CASTLE WELL, 

“ What vantage or what thing 
Gett’st thou thus for to sting, 
Thou false and flattTing liar ? 
Thy tongue doth hurt, it’s seen 
No less than arrows keen 
Or hot consuming fire.” 


So sang the congregation in the chapel at Chartley, iu 
the strains of Sternhold and Hopkins, wldle Humfrey 
Talbot could not forbear from a misgiving whether 
these falsehoods were entirely on the side to which 
they were thus liberally attributed. Opposite to him 
stood Cicely, in her dainty Sunday farthingale of white, 
embroidered with violet buds, and a green and violet 
boddice to match, holding herself with that unconscious 
royal bearing which had always distinguished her, but 
with an expression of care and anxiety drawing her 
dark brows nearer together as she bent over her book. 

She knew that her mother had left her bed with the 
earliest peep of summer dawn, and had met the two 
secretaries in her cabinet. There they were busy for 
hours, and she had only returned to her bed just as the 
household began to bestir itself. 

“ My child,” she said to Cicely, “ I am about to put 


THE CASTLE WELL. 


359 


XXVII.] 

my life into thy keeping and that of this Talbot lad. 
If what he saith of this Langston be sooth, I am again 
betrayed, fool that I was to expect aught else. My 
life is spent in being betrayed. The fellow hath been 
a go-between in all that hath passed between Bahington 
ii/id me. If he hath uttered it to Walsingharn, all is 
over with our hopes, and the window in whose sun- 
light I have been basking is closed for ever ! But some- 
thing may yet be saved. Something ? 'What do I 
say ? — The letters I hold here would give colour for 
taking my life, ay, and Babington’s and Curll’s, and 
many more. I trusted to have burnt them, hut in this 
summer time there is no coming by fire or candle 
without suspicion, and if I tore them they might be 
pieced together, nay, and with addition. They must 
be carried forth and made away with beyond the ken 
of Paulett and his spies. Now, this lad hath some 
bowels of compassion and generous indignation. Thou 
wilt see him again, alone and unsuspected, ere he departs. 
Thou must deal with him to bear this packet away, 
and when he is far out of reach to drop it into the 
most glowing fire, or the deej^est pool he can find. 
Tell him it may concern thy life and liberty, and he 
will do it, but be not simj^le enough to say ought of 
Bahington.” 

“ He would be as like to do it for Bahington as for 
any other,” said Cis. 

The Queen smiled and said, “ Nineteen years old, 
and know thus little of men.” 

“ I know Humfrey at least,” said Cis. 

“ Then deal with him after thy best knowledge, 
to make him convey away tin's perilous matter ere 
a search come upon us. Do it we must, maiden, 
not for thy poor mother’s sake alone, but for that of 


360 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAI 

many a faithful spirit outside, and above all of poor 
Curll. Think of our Barbara ! Would that I could 
have sent her out of reach of our alarms and shocks, 
but Paulett is bent on penning us together like silly 
birds in the net. StiU proofs will be wanting if thou 
canst get this youth to destroy this packet unseen. 
Tell him that I know his parents’ son too well to offer 
him any meed save the prayers and blessings of a poor 
captive, or to fear that he would yield it for the largest 
reward Elizabeth’s coffers could yield.” 

“ It shall be done, madam,” said Cicely. 

But there was a strong purpose in her mind that 
Humfrey should not be implicated in the matter. 

When after dinner Sir Amias Paulett made his 
daily visit of inspection to the Queen, she begged that 
the young Talbots might be permitted another walk in 
the garden ; and when he replied that he did not 
approve of worldly pastime on the Sabbath, she 
pleaded the celebrated example of John Knox finding 
Calvin playing at bowls on a Sunday afternoon at 
Geneva, and thus absolutely prevailed on him to let 
them take a short walk together in brotherly love, 
while the rest of the household was collected in the 
hall to be catechised by the chaplain. 

So out they went together, but to Humfrey ’s sur- 
prise, Cicely walked on hardly speaking to him, so that 
he fancied at first that she must have had a lecture on 
her demeanour to -him. She took him along the broad 
terrace beside the bowling-green, through some yew- 
tree walks to a stone wall, and a gate which proved 
to be locked. She looked much disappointed, but 
scanning the wall with her eye, said, “We lave scaled 
walls together before now, and higher than tliis. Hum- 
frey, I cannot tell you why, but I must go over here.” 


XXVII.] THE CASTLE WELL. 361 

The wall was overgrown with stout branches of 
ivy, and though the Sunday farthingale was not very 
appropriate for climbing, Cicely’s active feet and 
Humfrey’s strong arm carried her safely to where she 
could jump down on the other side, into a sort of 
wilderness where thorn and apple trees grew among 
green mounds, heaps of stones and broken walls, the 
ruins of some old outbuilding of the former castle. 
There was only a certain trembling eagerness about 
lier, none of the mirthful exultation that the recurrence 
of such an escapade with her old companion would 
naturally have excited, and all she said was, “ Stand 
here, Humfrey; an you love me, follow me not. I will 
return anon.” 

With stealthy step she disappeared behind a mound 
covered by a thicket of brambles, but Humfrey was 
much too anxious for her safety not to move quietly 
onwards. He saw her kneeling by one of those black 
yawning holes, often to be found in ruins, intent upon 
fastening a small packet to a stone ; he understood aU 
in a moment, and drew back far enough to secure that 
no one molested her. There was something in this 
reticence of hers that touched him greatly ; it showed 
so entirely that she had learnt the lesson of loyalty 
which his father’s influence had impressed, and likewise 
one of self-dependence. What was right for her to do 
for her mother and Queen might not be right for him, as 
an Englishman, to aid and abet ; and small as the deed 
seemed in itself, her thus silently taking it on herself 
rather than perplex him with it, added a certain esteem 
anvl respect to the affection he had always had for her. 

She came back to him with bounding steps, as if 
with a lightened heart, and as he asked her what this 
strango place was, she explained that here were said to 


362 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAF. 

be the ruins of the former castle, and that beyond la^ 
the ground where sometimes the party shot at the butts. 
A little dog of Mary Seaton’s had been lost the last 
time of their archery, and it was feared that he had 
fallen down the old well to which Cis now conducted 
Humfrey. There was a sound — long, hollow, rever- 
berating, when Humfrey threw a stone down, and when 
Cicely asked him, in an awestruck voice, whether he 
thought anything thrown there would ever be heard of 
more, he could well say that he believed not. 

She breathed freely, but they were ©ut of bounds, 
and had to scramble back, which they did undetected, 
and with much more mirth than the first time. Cicely 
was young enougli to be glad to throw off her anxieties 
and forget them. She did not want to talk over the 
plots she only guessed at; which were not to her exciting 
mysteries, but gloomy terrors into which she feared 
to look. Nor w^as she free to say much to Humfrey of 
what she knew. Indeed the rebound, and the satis- 
faction of having fulfilled her commission, had raised 
Cicely’s spirits, so that she was altogether the bright 
childish companion Humfrey had known her before he 
went to sea, or royalty had revealed itself to her ; and 
Sir Amias Paulett would hardly have thought them 
solemn and serious enough for an edifying Sunday talk 
could he have heard them laughing over Humfrey’s 
adventures on board ship, or her troubles in learning to 
dance in a high and disposed manner. She came in so 
glowing and happy that the Queen smiled and sighed, 
anJ called her her little milkmaid, commending her 
highly, however, for having disposed of the dangerous 
parcel unknown (as she believed) to her companion. 
“ The fewer who have to keep counsel, the sickeier it 
is,” she said. 


XXVII.] 


THE CASTLE WELL. 


363 


Humfrey meantime joined the rest of the house- 
]iold, and comported himself at the evening sermon 
with such exemplary discretion as entirely to win the 
heart of Sir Amias Paulett, who thought him listening 
to Mr. Blunden’s oft-divided headings, while he was in 
fact revolving on what pretext he could remain to pro- 
tect Cicely. The Knight gave him that pretext, when 
he spoke of departing early on Monday morning, 
offering him, or rather praying him to accept, the com- 
mand of the guards, whose former captain had been 
dismissed as untrustworthy. Sir Amias undertook 
that a special messenger should be sent to take a letter 
to Bridgefield, explaining Humfrey’s delay, and asking 
permission from his parents to undertake the charge, 
since it was at this very crisis that he was especially 
in need of God-fearing men of full integrity. Then 
moved to confidence, the old gentleman disclosed that 
not only was he in fear of an attack on the house 
from the Eoman Catliolic gentry in the neiglibourhood, 
which was to take place as soon as Parma’s ships were 
seen on the coast, but that he dreaded his own servants 
being tampered with by some whom he would not men- 
tion to take the life of the prisoner secretly. 

“ It hath been mooted to me,” he said, lowering his 
voice to a whisper, “ that to take such a deed on mo 
would be good service to the Queen and to religion, 
but I cast the thought from me. It can be nought but 
a deadly sin — accursed of God — and were I to con- 
sent, I should be the first to be accused.” 

“It would be no better than the King of Spain 
himself,” exclaimed Humfrey. 

“ Even so, young man, and right glad am I to 
find one who thinks with me. For the other prac- 
tices, they are none of mine, and is it not written ' In 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


364 


[chap. 


the same pit which they laid privily is their foot 
taken ’ ? ” 

“ Then there are other practices ?” 

“Ask me no questions, Mr. Talbot. All will be 
known soon enough. Be content that I will lay no- 
tliing on you inconsistent with the honour of a Chris- 
tian man, knowing that you will serve the Queen 
faithfully.” 

Humfrey gave his word, resolving that he would 
warn Cicely to reckon henceforth on nothing on his 
part that did not befit a man in charge. 


xxvm.J 


HUNTING DOWN THE P EER. 


365 


CHAPTEE XXVIIL 

HUNTING DOWN THE DEER. 

Humerey had been sworn in of the service of the 
Queen, and had been put in charge of the guard mus- 
tered at Chartley for about ten days, during which he 
seldom saw Cicely, and wondered much not to have 
heard from home : when a stag-hunt was arranged to 
take place at the neighbouring park of Tickhill or Tix- 
all, belonging to Sir Walter Ashton, 

The chase always invigorated Queen Mary, and she 
came down in cheerful spirits, with Cicely and Mary 
Seaton as her attendants, and with the two secretaries, 
Nau and Curll, heading the other attendants. 

“ Now,” she said to Cicely, “ shall I see this swain, 
or this brother of thine, who hath done us such good 
service, and I promise you there will be more in my 
greeting than will meet Sir Amias’s ear.” 

But to Cicely’s disappointment Humfrey was not 
among the horsemen mustered at the door to attend 
and guard the Queen. 

" My little maid’s eye is seeking for her brother,” said 
Mary, as Sir Amias advanced to assist her to her horse. 

“ He hath another charge which will keep him at 
home,” replied Paulett, somewhat gruffly, and they 
rode on. 


366 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


It was a beautiful day in early August, the trees in 
full foliage, the fields seen here and there through 
them assuming their amber harvest tints, the twin 
spires of Lichfiehl rising in the distance, the park and 
forest ground through which the little hunting-party 
rode rich with purple heather, illuminated here and 
there with a briglit yellow spike or star, and the rapid 
motion of her brisk palfrey animated the Queen. She 
began to hope that Humfrey had after all brought a 
false alarm, and that either he had been mistaken or 
that Langston was deceiving the Council itself, and 
though Sir Amias Paulett’s close proximity held her 
silent, those who knew her best saw that her indomit- 
ably buoyant spirits were rising, and she hummed to 
herself the refrain of a gay French hunting-song, with 
the more zest perhaps that her warder held himself 
trebly upright, stiff and solemn under it, as one who 
thought such lively tunes equally unbefitting a lady, a 
queen, and a captive. So at least Cis imagined as 
she watched them, little guessing that there might be 
deeper reasons of compassion and something like com- 
punction to add to the gravity of the old knight’s face. 

As they came in siglit of the gate of Tickhill Park, 
they became aware of a company whose steel caps and 
shouldered arquebuses did not look like those of hunts- 
men. ]\Iary bounded in her saddle ; she looked round 
at her little suite with a glance of exultation in her 
eye, which said as plainly as words, “ My brave friends, 
the hour has come !” and she quickened her steed, 
expecting, no doubt, that she might have to outride Sir 
Amias in order to join them. 

One gentleman came forward from the rest. He 
held a parchmen., in his hand, and as soon as be was 
alongside of the Queen thus read ; — 


XXVIII.] HUNTING DOWN THE DEEK. 367 

“Mary, late Queen of Scots and Queen Dowagei 
of France, I, Thomas Gorges, attaint thee of high 
treason and of compassing the life of our most Gracious 
Majesty Queen Elizabeth, in company with Antony 
pabington, John Ballard, Chidiock Tichhorne, Eobert 
Barnwell, and others.” 

Mary held up her hands, and raised her eyes to 
Heaven, and a protest was on lier lips, but Gorges cut 
it short with, “ It skills not denying it, madam. The 
proofs are in our hands. I have orders to conduct 
you to Tickhill, while seals are put on your effects.” 

“ That there may be proofs of your own making,” 
said the Queen, with dignity. “ I have experience of 
that mode of judgment. So, Sir Amias Paulett, the 
chase you lured me to was truly of a poor hunted doe 
whom you think you have run down at last. A 
worthy chase indeed, and of long continuance !” 

“ I do but obey my orders, madam,” said Paulett, 
gloomily. 

“ Oh ay, and so does the sleuth-hound,” said Mary. 

“ Your Grace must be pleased to ride on with me,” 
said Mr. Gorges, laying his hand on her bridle. 

“ What are you doing with those gentlemen ?” cried 
Mary, sharply reining in her horse, as she saw Nau and 
CurU surrounded by the armed men. 

“ They will be dealt with after her Majesty’s plea- 
sure,” returned Paulett. 

Mary dropped her rein and threw up her hands with 
a gesture of despair, but as Gorges was leading her 
away, she turned on her saddle, and raised her voice 
to call out, “ Farewell, my true and faithful servants ! 
Betide what may, y/uir mistress will remember you 
in her prayers. CurU, we wUl take care of your wife.” 

And she waved her hand to them as they were 


368 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

made, with a strong guard, to ride off in the direction 
of Lichfield. All the way to Tickhill, whither she 
was conducted with Gorges and Paulett on either side 
of her horse, Cis could hear her pleading for consider- 
ation for poor Barbara Curll, for whose sake she forgot 
her own dignity and became a suppliant. 

Sir Walter Ashton, a dull heavy-looking country 
gentleman of burly form and ruddy countenance, stood 
at his door, and somewhat clownishly offered his ser- 
vices to hand her from her horse. 

She submitted passively till she had reached the 
upper chamber which had been prepared for her, and 
there, turning on the three gentlemen, demanded the 
meaning of this treatment. 

“ You will soon know, madam,” said Paulett. “ I 
am sorry that thus it should be.” 

"Thus !” repeated Mary, scornfully. "What means 
this ?” 

" It means, madam,” said Gorges, a ruder man of 
less feeling even than Paulett, “ that your practices 
with recusants and seminary priests have been detected. 
The traitors are in the Counter, and will shortly be 
brought to judgment for the evil purposes which have 
been frustrated by the mercy of Heaven.” 

" It is well if treason against my good sister’s person 
have been detected and frustrated,” said Mary ; " but 
how doth that concern me ? ” 

" That, madam, the papers at Chartley will show,” 
returned Gorges. “ Meantime you will remain here, 
till her Majesty’s pleasure be known.” 

“Wliere, then, are my women and my servants?” 
inquired the Queen. 

" Your Grace will be attended by the servants of 
Sir Walter Ashton.” 


XXVIII.] HUNTING DOWN THE DEER. 369 

“Gentlemen, this is not seemly,” sai^l Mary, the 
colour coming hotly into her face. “ I know it is not 
the will of my cousin, the Queen of England, that I 
should remain here without any woman to attend me, 
noi any change of garments. You are exceeding ) our 
commission, and she shall hear of it.” 

Sir Amias Paulett here laid his hand on Gorges’ 
arm, and after exchanging a few words with him, said — 

“Madam, this young lady. Mistress Talbot, being 
simple, and of a loyal house, may remain with you for 
the present. For the rest, seals are put on all your 
effects at Chartley, and nothing can be removed from 
thence, but what is needful will be supplied by my 
Lady Ashton. I bid your Grace farewell, craving your 
pardon for what may have been hasty in this.” 

Mary stood in the centre of the floor, full of her 
own peculiar injured dignity, not answering, but making 
a low ironical reverence. Mary Seaton fell on her 
knees, clung to the Queen’s dress, and declared that 
while she lived, she would not leave her mistress. 

“Endure this also, ma mie” said the Queen, in 
French. “Give them no excuse for using violence. 

They would not scruple ” and as a demonstration to 

hinder French-speaking was made by the gentlemen, 
“ Fear not for me, I shall not be alone.” 

“ I understand your Grace and obey,” said Mary 
Seaton, rising, with a certain bitterness in her tone, 
which made Mary say — “ Ah ! why must jealousy mar 
the fondest affection ? Eemember, it is their choice, not 
mine, my Seaton, friend of my youth. Bear my loving 
gi’eetings to all. And take care of poor Barbara !” 

“ Madam, there must be no private messages,” said 
Paulett. 

“ I send no messages save what you yourself may 
2 B 


370 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap 

hear, sir,” replied the Queen. “ My greetings to m); 
faithful servants, and my entreaty that all care and 
tenderness may be shown to Mrs. Curll.” 

“ I will bear them, madam,” said the knight, “ and 
so 1 commend you to God’s keeping, praying that He 
may send you repentance. Believe me, madam, I am 
sorry that this has been put upon me.” 

To this Mary only replied by a gesture of dismissal. 
The three gentlemen drew back, a key grated in the 
lock, and the mother and daughter were left alone. 

To Cicely it was a terrible hopeless sound, and even 
to her mother it was a lower depth of wretchedness. 
She had been practically a captive for nearly twenty 
years. She had been insulted, watched, guarded, coerced, 
but never in this manner locked up before. 

She clasped her hands together, dropped on her 
knees at the table that stood by her, and hid her face. 
So she continued till she was roused by the sound of 
Cicely’s sobs. Frightened and oppressed, and new to 
all terror and sorrow, the girl had followed her example 
in kneeling, but the very attempt to pray brought on 
a fit of weeping, and the endeavour to restrain what 
might disturb the Queen only rendered the sobs more 
choking and strangling, till at last Mary heard, and 
coming towards her, sat down on the floor, gathered 
her into her arms, and Idssing her forehead, said, 
“ Poor bairnie, and did she weep for her mother ? Have 
the sorrows of her house come on lier ?” 

“ 0 mother, I could not help it ! I meant to have 
comforted you,” said Cicely, between her sobs. 

“And so thou dost, my child. Unwittingly they 
have left me that which was most precious to me.” 

There was consolaticn in the fondness of the lovinf^ 
embrace, at least to such sorrows as those of the 


HUNTING DOWN THE DEER. 


371 


XXVI II.] 

maiden ; and Queen Mary had an inalienable power of 
charming the will and affections of those in contact 
with her, so that insensibly there came into Cicely’s 
heart a sense that, so far from weeping, she should 
rejoice at being the one creature left to console her 
mother. 

“ And,” she said by and by, looking ap with a 
smile, “ they must go to the bottom of tlie old well to 
find anything.” 

“Hush, lassie. Never speak above thy breath in a 
prison till thou know’st whether walls have ears. And, 
apropos, let us examine what sort of a prison they have 
given us this time.” 

So saying Mary rose, and leaning on her daughter's 
arm, proceeded to explore her new abode. Like her 
apartment at the Lodge, it was at the top of the 
house, a fashion not uncommon when it was desirable 
to make the lower regions defensible ; but, whereas she 
had always hitherto been placed in the castles of the 
highest nobility, she was now in that of a country 
knight of no great wealth or refinement, and, moreover, 
taken by surprise. 

So the plenishing was of the simplest. The walls 
were covered with tapestry so faded that the pattern 
could hardly be detected. The hearth yawned dark 
and dull, and by it stood one cliair with a moth-eaten 
cushion. A heavy oaken table and two forms w^ere in 
the middle of the room, and there was the dreary, fusty 
smell of want of habitation. The Queen, wl. Dse instincts 
for fresh air were always a disti-ess to her ladies, sprang 
to the muUioned window, but the heavy lattice defied 
all her efforts. 

“ Let us see the rest of our dominions,” she said, 
turning to a door, which led to a stUl more gloomy 


372 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

bedroom, wliere the only articles of furniture were a 
great carved bed, with curtains of some undefined dark 
colour, and an oaken chest. The window was a 
mere slit, and even more impracticable than that of 
the outer room. However, this did not seem to hor- 
rify Mary so much as it did her daughter. “ They 
cannot mean to keep us here long,” she said ; “ perhaps 
only for the day, while they make their search — theii 
unsuccessful search — thanks to — we know whom, little 
one.” 

“ I hope so ! How could we sleep there ? ” said 
Cicely, looking with a shudder at the bed. 

“ Tush ! I have seen worse in Scotland, mignonne, 
ay and when I was welcomed as liege lady, not as 
a captive. I have slept in a box hke a coffin with one 
side open, and I have likewise slept on a plaidie on 
the braw purple blossoms of freshly pulled heather ! 
Nay, the very thought makes this chamber doubly 
mouldy and stifling ! Let the old knight beware. If 
he open not his window I shall break it ! Soft. Here 
he comes.” 

Sir Walter Ashton appeared, louting low, looking 
half- dogged, half- sheepish, and escorting two heavy- 
footed, blue-coated serving-men, who proceeded t: lay 
the cloth, which at least had the merit of being per- 
fectly clean and white. Two more brought in covered 
silver dishes, one of which contained a Yorkshire 
pudding, the other a piece of roast-beef, apparently 
calculated to satisfy five hungry men. A flagon of 
sack, a tankard of ale, a dish of apples, and a large loaf 
of bread, completed the meal ; at which the Queen 
and Cicely, accustomed daily to a first table of six- 
teen dishes and a second of nine, compounded by her 
Grace’s own French cooks and pantlers, looked with a 


xxviil] hunting down the deer. 373 

certfiin amused dismay, as Sir Walter, standing by the 
tab] e, produced a dagger from a sheath at his belt, and 
too’c up with it first a mouthful of the pudding, then 
cut off a corner of the beef, finished off some of the 
bread, and having swallowed these, as well as a 
draught of each of the liquors, said, “ Good and sound 
meats, not tampered with, as I hereby testify. You 
take us suddenly, madam ; but I thank Heaven, none 
ever found us unprovided. Will it please you to fall 
to ? Your woman can eat after you.” 

Mary’s courtesy was unfailing, and though she felt 
all a Frenchwoman’s disgaist at the roast-beef of old 
England, she said, “We are too close companions not 
to eat together, and I fear she will be the best trencher 
comrade, for, sir, I am a woman sick and sorrowful, and 
have little stomach for meat.” 

As Sir Walter carved a huge red piece from the ribs, 
she could not help shrinking back from it, so that he 
said with some affront, “ You need not be queasy, 
madam, it was cut from a home-fed bullock, only kdled 
three days since, and as prime a beast as any in 
Stafford.” 

“ Ah ! yes, sir. It is not the fault of the beef, but 
of n y feebleness. Mistress Talbot will do it reason. 
But I, methinks I could eat better were the windows 
opei cd.” 

But Sir Walter replied that these windows were 
not of the new-fangled sort, made to open, that honest 
men might get rheums, and foolish maids prate there- 
from. So there was no hope in that direction. He 
really seemed to be less ungracious than utterly clownish, 
dull, and untaught, and extremely shy and embarrassed 
urith his prisom^r. 

Cicely poured out some wine, and persuaded her to 


374 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

dip some bread in, which, with an apple, was all she could 
taste. However, the fare, though less nicely served 
than by good Mrs. Susan, was not so alien to Cicely, 
and she was of an age and constitution to be made 
hungry by anxiety and trouble, so that — encouraged by 
the Queen whenever she would have desisted — she 
ended by demolishing a reasonable amount. 

Sir Walter stood all the time, looking on moodily 
and stolidly, with his cap in his hand. The Queen 
tried to talk to him, and make inquiries of him, but 
he had probably steeled Irimself to her blandishments, 
for nothing but gruff monosyllables could be extracted 
from him, except when he finally asked what she would 
be pleased to have for supper. 

“ Mine own cook and pan tier have hitherto pro- 
vided for me. They would save your household the 
charge, sir,” said Mary, “ and I woidd be at charges 
for them.” 

“Madam, I can bear the charge in the Queen’s 
service. Your black guard are under ward. And if 
not, no French jackanapes shall ever brew his messes 
in my kitchen ! Command honest English fare, 
madam, and if it be within my compass, you shall 
have it. No one shall be stinted in Walter Ashton's 
house ; but I’ll not away with any of your outlandish 
kickshaws. Come, what say you to eggs and bacon, 
madam ? ” 

“As you will, sir,” replied Mary, listlessly. And Sir 
Walter, opening the door, shouted to his serving-man, 
who speedily removed the meal, he going last and 
making his clumsy reverence at the door, which he 
locked behind him. 

“ So,” said Mary, “ I descend ! I have had the 
statesman, the earl, the courtly knight, the pedantiq 


HUNTING DOWN THE DEER. 


375 


XX\ II I, J 

Huguenot, for my warders. Now am I come to the 
clown. Soon will it be the dungeon and the 
headsman.” 

“ 0 dear madam mother, speak not thus,” cried 
Cicely. “ Eememher they can find nothing against 
you.” 

“ They can make what they cannot find, my poor 
cliild. If they thirst for my blood, it will cost them 
little to forge a plea. Ah, lassie ! there have been 
tunes when nothing but my cousin Elizabeth’s con- 
science, or her pity, stood between me and doom. If 
she be brought to think that I have compassed her 
death, why then there is naught for it but to lay my 
head on the same pillow as Norfolk and More and 
holy Eisher, and many another beside. Well, be it so ! 
I shall die a martyr for the Holy Church, and thus 
may I atone by God’s mercy for my many sins ! Yea, I 
offer myself a sacrifice,” she said, folding her hands and 
looking upward with a light on her face. “ 0 do Thou 
accept it, and let my sufferings purge away my many 
misdeeds, and render it a pure and acceptable offering 
unto Thee. Child, child,” she added, turning to Cicely, 
“ would that thou wert of my faith, then couldst thou 
pray for me.” 

“ 0 mother, mother, I can do that. I do pray foi 
thee.” 

And hand in hand, with tears often rising, they 
knelt while Mary repeated in broken voice the 
Miserera 


376 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTEE XXIX 

THE SEARCH. 

Humfrey had been much disappointed, when, instead of 
joining the hunt. Sir Ainias Paulett bade him undertake 
the instruction of half a dozen extremely awkward 
peasants, who had been called in to increase the guard, 
but who did not know how to shoulder, load, or fire 
an arquebus, had no command of their own limbs, and, 
if put to stand sentry, would quite innocently loll in 
the nearest corner, and go to sleep. However, he 
reflected that if he were resident in the same house as 
Cicely he could not expect opportunities to be daily 
made for their meeting, and he addressed himself with 
all his might to the endeavour to teach his awkward 
squad to stand upright for five minutes together. 
Sturdy fellows as they were, he had not been able to 
hinder them from lopping over in all directions, when 
horses were heard approaching. Every man of them, 
regardless of discipline lumbered off to stare, and 
Humfrey, after shouting at them in vain, and wishing 
he had them all on board ship, gave up the endeavour 
to recall them, and followed their example, repairing to 
the hall-door, when he found Sir Amias Paulett dis- 
mounting, together with a clerkly-looking personage, 
attended by Will Cavendish. Mary Seaton was being 


THE SEAECH. 


377 


XXIX.] 

assisted from her horse, evidently in great gi’ief ; and 
others of the personal attendants of Mary were there, 
but neither herself. Cicely, nor the Secretaries. 

Before he had time to ask questions, his old com- 
panion came up to him. “ You here still, Humfrey ! 
Well ! You have come in for the outburst of the 
train you scented out when you were with us in 
London, though I could not then speak explicitly.” 

“ What mean you ? Where is Cicely ? Where is 
the Queen of Scots ? ” asked Humfrey anxiously. 

Sir Amias Paulett heard him, and replied, “Your 
sister is safe. Master Talbot, and with the Queen of 
Scots at Tixall Castle. We permitted her attend- 
ance, as being young, simple, and loyal ; she is less like 
to serve for plots than her elders in that lady’s service.” 

Sir Amias strode on, conducting with him his 
guest, whom Cavendish explained to be Mr. Wade, 
sworn by her Majesty’s Council to take possession of 
Queen Mary’s effects, and there make search for 
evidence of the conspiracy. Cavendish followed, and 
Humfrey took leave to do the same. 

The doors of the Queen’s apartment were opened 
at the summons of Sir Amias Paulett, and Sir Andrew 
Melville, Mistress Kennedy, Marie de CourceUes, and 
the rest, stood anxiously demanding what was become 
of their Queen. They were briefly and harshly told 
that her foul and abominable plots and conspiracies 
against the life of the Queen, and the peace of the 
Kingdom, had been brought to light, and that she was 
under secure ward. 

Jean Kennedy demanded to be taken to her at 
once, but Paulett replied, “ That must not be, madam. 
We have stiict commands to keep her secluded from 

aa** 


378 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

Marie de Courcelles screamed alcud and wrung her 
hands, crying, “ If ye have slain her, only tell us 
quickly ! ” Sir Andrew Melville gravely protested 
against such a barbarous insult to a Queen of Scot- 
land and France, and was answered, “No queen, sii-, 
but a State criminal, as we shall presently show.” 

Here Barbara Ciirll i)ressed forward, asking wildly 
for her husband ; and Wade replying, with brutal 
brevity, that he was taken to London to be examined 
for his practices before the Council, the poor lady, well 
knowing that examination often meant torture, fell 
back in a swoon. 

“We shall do nothing with all these women crying 
and standing about,” said Wade impatiently; “have 
them all away, while we put seals on the effects.” 

“ Nay, sirs,” said Jean Kennedy. “ Suffer me 
first to send her Grace some changes of garments.” 

“ I teU thee, woman,” said Wade, “ our orders are 
precise ! Not so much as a kerchief is to be taken 
from these chambers till search hath been made. We 
know what practices may lurk in the smallest rag.” 

“ It is barbarous ! It is atrocious ! The King of 
France shall hear of it,” shrieked Marie de Courcelles. 

“ The King of France has enough to do to take 
care of himself, my good lady,” returned Wade, with 
a sneer. 

“ Sir,” said J ean Kennedy, with more dignity, turn- 
ing to Sir Amias Paulett, “ I cannot believe that it can 
he by the orders of the Queen of England, herself a 
woman, that my mistress, her cousin, should be de- 
prived of all attendance, and even of a chauge of linen. 
Such unseemly commands can never have been issued 
from herself.' 

“ She is not without attendance,” replied the knight, 


THE SEARCH. 


379 


XXIX.] 

" the little Talbot wench is with her, and for the rest, 
Sir Walter and Lady Ashton have orders to supply her 
needs during her stay among them. She is treated 
with all honour, and is lodged in the best chambers,” 
he added, consolingly. 

“We must dally no longer,” called out Wade. 
‘ Have away all this throng into ward. Sir Amiaa 
We can do nothing with them here.” ^ 

There was no help for it. Sir Andrew Melville did 
indeed pause to enter his protest, but that, of course, 
went for nothing with the Commissioners, and Humfrey 
was ordered to conduct them to the upper gallery, there 
to await further orders. It was a long passage, in the 
highly pointed roof, with small chambers on either 
side which could be used ^then there was a press of 
guests. There was a steep stair, as the only access, 
and it could be easily guarded, so Sir Amias directed 
Humfrey to post a couple of men at the foot, and to 
visit and relieve them from time to time. 

It was a sad procession that cLmbed up those 
narrow stairs, of those faithful followers who were 
separated from their Queen for the first time. The 
servants of lower rank were merely watched in their 
kitchen, and not allowed to go beyond its courtyard, 
but were permitted to cook for and wait on the 
others, and bring them such needful furniture as was 
required. 

Humfrey was very sorry for them, having had some 
acquaintance with them all his life, and he was dis- 
mayed to find himself, instead of watching over Cicely, 
separated from her and made a jailer against his wiU. 
And when he returned to the Queen’s apartments, he 
found Cavendish holding a taper, while Paulett and 
Wade were vigorously affixing cords, fastened at each 


380 UNKNOWN TO HISTOliY. [CHAP. 

end by huge red seals bearing the royal arms, to every 
receptacle, and rudely plucking back the curtains that 
veiled the ivory crucifix. Sir Amias’s zeal would have 
“plucked down the idol,” as he said, but Wade re- 
strained him by reminding him that all injury or 
damage was forbidden. 

Not till all was sealed, and a guard had been 
stationed at the doors, would the Commissioners taste 
any dinner, and then their conversation was brief and 
guarded, so that Humfrey could discover little. He 
did, indeed, catch the name of Babington in connection 
with the “ Counter prison,” and a glance of inquiry to 
Cavendish, with a nod in return, showed him that his 
suspicions were correct, but he learnt little or nothing 
more till the two, together with Phillipps, drew to- 
gether in the deep window, with wine, apples, and 
pears on the ledge before them, for a private discussion. 
Humfrey went away to see that the sentries at the 
staircase were relieved, and to secure that a sufficient 
meal for the unfortunate captives in the upper stories 
had been allowed to pass. Will Cavendish went with 
him. He had known these ladies and gentlemen far 
more intimately than Humfrey had done, and allowed 
that it was harsh measure that they suffered for their 
fidelity to their native sovereign. 

“No harm will come to them in the end,” he said, 
“ but what can we do ? That very faithfulness would 
lead them to traverse our purposes did we not shut 
them up closely out of reach of meddling, and there is 
no other place where it can be done.” 

“And what are these same purposes?” asked 
Humfrey, as, having fulfilled his commission, the two 
young men strolled out into the garden and threw 
themselves on the grass, close to a large mulberry-tree, 


THE SEARCH. 


381 


XXIX,] 

whose luscious fruit dropped round, and hung ^ ithin 
easy reach. 

“ To trace out all the coils of as villainous and 
bloodthirsty a plot as ever was hatched in a traitor’s 
brain,” said Will ; “ but they little knew that we over- 
looked their designs the whole time. Thou wast 
mystified in London, honest Humfrey, I saw it plainly; 
but I might not then speak out,” he added, with aU his 
official self-importance. 

“ And poor Tony hath brought • himself within 
compass of the law ?” 

“Verily you may say so. But Tony Babington 
always was a fool, and a wrong-headed fool, who was 
sure to ruin himself sooner or later. You remember 
the decoy for the wild-fowl ? Well, never was silly duck 
or goose so ready to swim into the nets as was he !” 

“He always loved this Queen, yea, and the old 
faith.” 

“ He sucked in the poison with his mother’s milk, 
you may say. Mrs. Babington was naught but a 
concealed Papist, and, coming from her, it cost nothing 
to this Queen to beguile him when he was a mere lad, 
and make him do her errands, as you know full well 
Then what must my Lord Earl do but send him to 
that bitter Puritan at Cambridge, who turned him all 
the more that way, out of very contradiction. My 
Lord thought him cured of his Popish inclinations, and 
never guessed they had only led him among those who 
taught him to dissemble.” 

“And that not over well,” said Humfrey. “My 
father never trusted him.” 

“ And would not give him your sister. Yea, 
but the counterfeit was good enough for my Lord 
who sees nothing but 'what is before his nose, and 


3<S2 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

for my mother who sees nothing hut M'hat she 
will see. Well, he had fallen in with those who 
deem this same Mary our only lawful Queen, and 
would fain set her on the throne to bring back fire 
aii;l if.ggot by the Spanish sword among us.” 

“ I deemed him well-nigh demented with brooding 
over her troubles and those of his church.” 

“ Demented in verity. His folly was surpassing. 
He put his faith in a recusant priest — one John 
Ballard — who goes ruffling about as Captain Fortescue 
in velvet hose and a silver-laced cloak.” 

» Ha!” 

“ Hast seen him ?” 

“ Ay, in company with Babington, on the day I 
came to London, passing through Westminster.” 

“ Very like. Their chief place of meeting was at a 
house at Westminster belonging to a fellow named 
Gage. We took some of them there. Well, this 
Ballard teaches poor Antony, by way of gospel truth, 
that ’tis the mere duty of a good Catholic to slay the 
enemies of the church, and that he who kills our 
gracious Queen, whom God defend, will do the holiest 
deed ; just as they gulled the fellow, who murdered the 
Prince of Orange, and then died in torments, deeming 
liimself a holy martyr.” 

“ But it was not Babington whom I saw at Eich- 
mond.” 

“ Hold, I am ooming to that. Let me tell you the 
Queen bore it in mind, and asked after you. Well, 
Babington has a number of friends, as hot-brained and 
fanatical as himself, and when once he had swallowed 
the notion of privily murdering the Queen, he got so 
enamoured of it,' that he swore in five more to aid him 
in the enterprise, and then what must they do but have 


XXIX.] THE SEARCH. 383 

all their portraits taken in one picture with a Latin 
motto around them. What ! Thou hast seen it ?” 

“ He showed it to me in Paul’s Walk, and said I 
should hear of them, and I thought one of them mar- 
vellously like the fellow I had seen in Eichmoud Park.” 

“ So thought her Majesty. But more of that anon. 
On the self-same day as the Queen was to he slain by 
these sacrilegious wretches, another band was to fall 
on this place, free the lady and proclaim her, while 
the Prince of Parma landed from the Netherlands and 
brought fire and sword with him.” 

" And Antony would have brought this upon us ?” 
said Humfrey, still slow to believe it of his old com- 
rade. 

“ All for the true religion’s sake,” said Cavendish. 
“ They were ringing bells and giving thanks, for the 
discovery and baffling thereof, when we came down 
from London.” 

“ As well they might,” said Humfrey. “ But how 
was it detected and overthrown ? Was it through 
Langston ?” 

“ Ah, ha ! we had had the strings in our hands all 
along. Why, Langston, as thou namest him, though we 
call him Maude, and a master spy called Gifford, have 
kept us warned thoroughly of every stage in the busi- 
ness. Maude even contrived to borrow the picture undei 
colour of getting it blessed by the Pope’s agent, and 
lent it to Mr. Secretary Walsingham, by whom it was 
])rivily shown to the Queen. Thereby she recognised 
the rogue Barnwell, an Irishman it seems, when she 
was w'alking in the Park at Eichmond with only her 
women and Sir Christopher Hatton, who is better at 
dancing than at fighting. Not a sign did she give, but 
she kept him in check with her royal eye, so that he 


384 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAP. 

durst not so much as draw his pistol from his cloak; 
hut she owned afterwards to my Lady Norris that she 
could have kissed you when you came between, and 
all the more, when you caught her meaning and fol- 
lowed her bidding silently. You will hear of it again, 
Humps.” 

“ However that may be, it is a noble thing to have 
seen sucli courage in a woman and a queen. But how 
could the}'- let it go so near ? I could shudder now to 
think of the risk to her person ! ” 

“ There goes more to policy than you yet wot of,” 
said Will, in liis patronising tone. “ In truth, Barn- 
well had started off unknown to his comrades, hoping 
to have the glory of the achievement all to himself by 
forestalling them, or else Mr. Secretary would have 
been warned in time to secure the Queen.” 

“ But wherefore leave these traitors at large to 
work mischief ? ” 

“ See you not, you simple Humfrey, that, as I said 
methinks some time since, it is well sometimes to give 
a rogue rope enougli and he will hang himself ? Close 
the trap too soon, and you miss the biggest rat cf all. 
So we waited until the prey seemed shy and about to 
escape. Babington had, it seems, suspected Maude or 
Langston, or whatever you call him, and had ridden out 
of town, hiding in St. John’s Wood with some of his 
fellows, till they were starved out, and trying to creep 
into some outbuildings at Harrow, were there taken, 
and brought into London the morning we came away. 
Ballard, the blackest villain of all, is likewise in ward, 
and here we are to complete our evidence.” 

“ Nay, throughout all you have said, I have heard 
nothing to explain this morning’s work.” 

Will laughed outright. “ And so you think all this 


THE SEARCH. 


385 


XXIX.] 

ivould have been done without a word from their liege 
lady, the princess they all wanted to deliver from 
captivity ! 'N'o, no, sir ! ’Twas thus. There’s an 

honest man at Burton, a brewer, who sends beer week 
by week for this house, and very good ale it is, as I can 
testify. 1 wish I had a tankard of it here to qualify 
these mulberries. This same brewer is instructed by 
Gifford, whose uncle lives in these parts, to fit a false 
bottom to one of his barrels, wherein is a box fitted for 
the receipt of letters and parcels. Then by some means, 
through Langston I believe, Babington and Gifford 
made known to the Queen of Scots and the FrencU 
ambassador that here was a sure way of sending and 
receiving letters. The Queen’s butler, old Hannibal, 
was to look in the bottom of the barrel with the yellow 
hoop, and one Barnes, a familiar of Gifford and Babing- 
ton, undertook the freight at the other (iid. The 
ambassador, M. de Chateauneuf, seemed to doubt at 
first, and sent a single letter by way of experiment, 
and that having been* duly delivered and answered, the 
bait was swallowed, and not a week has gone by but 
letters have come and goue from hence, all being first 
opened, copied, and deciphered by worthy Mr. Phillipps, 
and every word of them laid before the Council.” 

“ Hum ! We should not have reckoned that fair play 
when we went to Master Suiggius’s,” observed Hum- 
frey, as he heard his companion’s tone of exultation. 

“ Fair play is a jewel that will not pass current in 
statecraft,” responded Cavendish. “ Moreover, that 
the plotter should be plotted against is surely only his 
desert. But thou art a mere sailor, my Talbot, and 
these subtilties of policy are not for thee.” 

“ For the which Heaven be praised !” said Humfrey. 
“ Yet having, as you say, read all thdse letters by the 
2 c 


UNKNOWN TU HISTOKY. 


386 


[chap. 


way, 1 see not wherefore ye are come down to seek foi 
more.” 

Will here imitated the Lord Treasurer’s nod as we/1 
as in him lay, not perhaps himself knowing the darker 
recesses of this same plot. He did know so much as 
that every stage in it had been revealed to Walsingham 
and Burghley as it proceeded. He did not know that 
the entire scheme had been hatched, not by a blind and 
fanatical partisan of Mary’s, doing evil that what he sup- 
posed to be good might come, but by Gilford and Morgan, 
Walsingham’s agents, for the express purpose of causing 
Mary totally to ruin herself, and to compel Elizabeth 
to put her to death, and that the unhappy Babiugton 
and his friends were thus recklessly sacrificed. The 
assassin had even been permitted to appear in Eliza- 
beth’s presence in order to terrify her into the convic- 
tion that her life could only be secured by Mary’s 
death. They, too, did evil that good might come, 
thinking Mary’s death alone could ensure them from 
Pope and Spaniard ; but surely they descended into a 
lower depth of iniquity than did their victims. 

AVill himself was not certain what was wanted 
among the Queen’s papers, unless it might be the actual 
letters from Babiugton, copies of which had been given 
by Phillipps to the Council, so he only looked sagacious ; 
and Humfrey thought of the Castle Well, and felt the 
.satisfaction there is in seeing a hunted creature escape. 
He asked, however, about Cuthbert Langston, saying, 
“ He is — worse luck, as you may have heard — akin to 
my father, who always pitied him as misguided, but 
thought him as sincere in his foUy as ever was this 
unlucky Babington.” 

“ So he seems to have been till of late. He hovered 
about in sundry disguises, as you know, much to the 


THE SEARCH. 


387 


XXIX.] 

torment of us all ; but finally he seems to have taken 
some umbrage at the lady, thinking she flouted his 
services, or did not pay him high enough for them, and 
Gifford bought him over easily enough ; but he goes 
with us by the name of Maude, and the best of it is 
that the poor fools thought he was hoodwinking us all 
the time. They never dreamt that we saw through 
them like glass. Babington was himself, with Mr. 
Secretary only last week, offering to go to France on 
business for him — the traitor ! Hark ! there are more 
sounds of horse hoofs. Who comes now, I marvel !” 

This was soon answered by a serving-man, who 
hurried out to tell Humfrey that his father was arrived, 
and in a few moments the young man was blessed and 
embraced by the good Eichard, while Diccon stood by, 
considerably repaired in flesh and colour by his brief 
stay under his mother’s care. 

Mr. Eichard Talbot was heartily welcomed by Sir 
Amias Paulett, who regretted that his daughter was 
out of reach, but did not make any offer of facilitating 
their meeting. 

Eichard explained that he was on his way to 
London on behalf of the Earl. Eeports and letters, 
not very clear, had reached Sheffield of young Babing- 
ton being engaged in a most horrible conspiracy against 
the Queen and country, and my Lord and my Lady, 
who still preserved a great kindness for their former 
ward, could hardly believe it, and had sent their useful 
and trustworthy kinsman to learn the truth, and to 
.find out whether any amount of fine or forfeiture would 
avail to save his life. 

Sir Amias thought it would be a fruitless errand, 
and so did Eichard himself, when he had heard as 
much of the history as it suited Paulett and Wade to 


388 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap 

toll, and though they esteemed and trusted him, they 
did not care to go beneath that outer surface of the 
plot which was filling all London with fury. 

When, having finished their after-dinner repose, they 
repaired to make farther search, taking Cavendish to 
assist, they somewhat reluctantly thought it due to Mr. 
Talbot to invite his presence, but he declined. He and 
his son had much to say to one another, he observed, 
and not long to say it in. 

“ Besides,” he added, when he found himself alone 
with Humfrey,having despatched Diccon on some errand 
to the stables, “ ’tis a sorry sight to see all the poor 
Lady’s dainty hoards turned out by strangers. If it 
must be, it must, but it would irk me to be an idle 
gazer thereon.” 

“ I would only,” said Humfrey, " be assured that 
they would not light on the proofs of Cicely’s birth.” 

“ Thou mayst be at rest on that score, my son. 
The Lady saw them, owned them, and bade thy mother 
keep them, saying ours were safer hands than hers. Thy 
mother was sore grieved, Humfrey, when she saw thee 
not ; but she sends thee her blessing, and saith thou 
dost right to stay and watch over poor little Cis.” 

“ It were well if I were watching over her,” said 
Humfrey, “ but she is mewed up at Tixall, and I am 
only keeping guard over poor Mistress Seaton and the 
rest.” 

“ Thou hast seen her ?” 

“ Yea, and she was far more our own sweet maid 
than when she came back to us at Bridgefield.” 

And Humfrey told his father all he had to tell of 
what he had seen and heard since he had been at 
Chartley. His adventures in London had already been 
made known by Diccon. Mr. Talbot was aghast, per* 


THE SEAKCH. 


389 


X XIX.] 

haps most of all at finding that his cousin Ciithbert 
was a double traitor. From the Eoman Catholic point 
of view, there had been no treason in his former machi- 
nations on behalf of Mary, if she were in his eyes his 
rightful sovereign, but the betrayal of confidence reposed 
ic him was so horrible that the good Master Eichard 
refused to believe it, till he had heard the proofs again 
and again, and then he exclaimed, 

“ That such a J udas should ever call cousin with 
us 1” 

There could be Ettle hope, as both agreed, of saving 
the unfortunate victims ; but Eichard was all the more 
bent on fulfilling Lord Shrewsbury’s orders, and doing 
his utmost for Babington. As to Humfrey, it would 
be better that he should remain where he was, so that 
Cicely might have some protector near her in case of 
any sudden dispersion of Mary’s suite. 

“Poor maiden!” said her foster-father, “she is in<a 
manner ours, and we cannot but watch over her; but 
after all, I doubt me whether it had not been better 
for her and for us, if the waves had beaten the little 
life out of her ere I carried her home.” 

“ She hath been the joy of my Efe,” said Humfrey, 
low and hoarsely. 

“ And I fear me she will be the sorrow of it. Not 
by her fault, poor wench, but what hope canst thou 
have, my son ?” 

“ None, sir,” said Humfrey, “ except of giving up all 
if I can so defend her from aught.” He spoke in a quiet 
matter-of-fact way that made his father look with some 
inquiry at his grave settled face, quite calm, as if saying 
nothing new, but expressing a long- formed quiet purpose. 

Nor, though Humfrey was his eldest son and heir, 
did Eichard Talbot try to cross it 


390 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

He asked whether he might see Cicely before going 
on to London, but Sir Amias said that in that case 
she would not be allowed to return to the Queen, and 
that to have had any intercourse with the prisoners 
might overthrow all his designs in London, and he 
therefore only left with Humfrey liis commendations to 
her, with a pot of fresh honey and a lavender-scented 
set of kerchiefs from Mistress Susan. 


XXX.] 


TilTE-i-T^iTIt. 


391 


CHAPTER XXX. 

T^lTE-A-T^lTE, 

During that close imprisonment at Tixall Cicely 
learnt to know her mother both in her strength and 
weakness. Tliey were quite alone, except that Sir 
Walter Ashton daily came to perform the office of 
taster and carver at their meals, and on the first even- 
ing his wife dragged herself upstairs to superintend the 
arrangement of their bedroom, and to supply them 
with toilette requisites according to her own very 
limited notions and possessions. The Dame was a 
very homely, hard-featured lady, deaf, and extremely 
fat and heavy, one of the old uncultivated rustic gentry 
who had lagged far behind the general civilisation of 
the country, and regarded all refinements as effeminate 
French vanities. She believed, likewise, all that was 
said against Queen Mary, whom she looked on as 
barely restrained from plunging a dagger into Elizabeth’s 
heart, and letting Parma’s hell-hounds loose upon Tix- 
all. To have such a guest imposed on her was no 
small grievance, and nothing but her husband’s absolute 
mandate could have induced her to come up with the - 
m.iids who brought sheets for the bed, pillows, and the 
like needments. Mary tried to make her requests as 
moderate as necessity would permit ; but when they 


592 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

had been shouted into her ears by one of the maids, 
she shook her head at most of them, as articles miknown 
to her. Nor did she ever appear again. Tlie arrange- 
ment of the bed-chamber was performed by two maidr 
servants, the Knight himself meanwhile standing a 
grim sentinel over the two ladies in the outer apart- 
ment to hinder their holding any communication through 
the servants. All requests had to be made to him, and 
on the first morning Mary made a most urgent one 
for writing materials, books, and either needlework or 
spinning. 

Pen and ink had been expressly forbidden, the only 
book in the house was a thumbed and torn primer, but 
Dame Joan, after much grumbling at fine ladies’ whims, 
vouchsafed to send up a distaff, some wool, a piece of 
unbleached linen, and a skein of white thread. 

Queen Mary executed therewith an exquisite piece 
of embroidery, which having escaped Dame Joan’s first 
impulse to burn it on the spot, remained for many 
years the show and the wonder of Tixall. Save for 
this employment, she said she should have gone mad 
in her utter uncertainty about her own fate, or that of 
those involved with her. To ask questions of Ashton 
was like asking them of a post. He would give her 
no notion whether her servants were at Chartley or 
not, whether they were at large or in confinement, far 
less as to who was accused of the plot, and what had 
been discovered. All that could be said for liim was 
that his churlishness was passive and according to his 
ideas of duty. He was a very reluctant and uncom- 
fortable jailer, but he never insulted, nor wilfully ill- 
nsed his unfortunate captive. 

Thus Mary was left to dwell on the little she knew, 
namely, that Babmgton and his fellows were arrested 


XXX.] tI:te1-t£:te. 393 

aud that she was supposed to be implicated ; but there 
her knowledge ceased, except that Humfrey’s warning 
convinced her that Cuthbert Langston had been at 
least one of the traitors. He had no doubt been of- 
fended and disappointed at that meeting during the 
hawking at Tutbuiy. 

“Yet I need scarcely seek the why or the where- 
fore,” she said. “ I have spent my life in a world of 
treachery. No sooner do I take a step on ground that 
seems ever so firm, than it proves a quicksand. They 
will swallow me at last.” 

Daily — more than daily — did she and Cicely go 
over together that hurried conversation on the moor, 
and try to guess whether Langston intended to hint at 
Cicely’s real birth. He had certainly not disclosed her 
secret as yet, or Paulett would never have selected her 
as sprung of a loyal house, but he might guess at the 
truth, and be waiting for an opportunity to sell it 
dearly to those who would regard her as possessed of 
dangerous pretensions. 

And far more anxiously did the Queen recur to 
examining Cicely on what she had gathered from 
Hmnfrey. This was iii fact nothing, for he had been 
on his guard against either telling or hearing anything 
inconsistent with loyalty to the English Queen, and 
thus had avoided conversation on these subjects. 

Nor did the Queen communicate much. Cicely 
never understood clearly what she dreaded, what she 
expected to be found among her papers, or what had 
been in the packet thrown into the well. The girl did 
not dare to ask direct questions, and the Queen always 
turned off indirect inquiries, or else assured her that she 
was still a simple happy child, and that it was better for 
her owu sake that she should know nothing, then caressed 


394 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

her, and fondly pitied her for not being admitted to hei 
mother’s confidence, but said piteously that she knew 
not what the secrets of Queens and captives were, not 
like those of Mistress Susan about the goose to be 
dressed, or the crimson hose to be knitted for a surprise 
to her good husband. 

But Cicely could see that she expected the worst 
and believed in a set purpose to shed her blood, and 
she spent much time in devotion, though sorely dis- 
tressed by the absence of all those appliances which 
her Church had taught her to rest upon. And these 
prayers, which often began with floods of tears, so that 
Cicely drew away into the window with her distaff in 
order not to seem to watch them, ended with rendering 
her serene and calm, with a look of high resignation, as 
having offered herself as a sacrifice and martyr for her 
Church. 

And yet was it wholly as a Eoman Catholic that 
she had been hated, intrigued against, and deposed 
in her own kingdom ? Was it simply as a Eoman 
Catholic that she was, as she said, the subject of a 
more cruel plot than that of which she was accused ? 

Mysterious woman that she was, she was never 
more mysterious than to her daughter in those seven- 
teen days that they were shut up together ! It did not 
so much strike Cicely at the time, when she was carried 
along with aU her mother’s impulses and emotions, 
without reflecting on them, but when in after times 
she thought over all that then had passed, she felt 
how little she had understood. 

They suffered a good deal from the heat and close- 
ness of the rooms, for Mary was like a modem 
Englishwoman in her craving for free air, and these 
were the dog-days. They had contrived by the help 


xilTE-A-T^TE. 


395 


XXX.] 

of a diamond that the Queen carried about with her, 
after tlie fashion of the time, to extract a pane or two 
from the lattices so ingeniously that the master of the 
house never found it out. And as their two apart- 
ments looked out different ways, they avoided the full 
sunshine, for they had neither curtains nor blinds to 
their windows, by moving from one to the other ; but 
still the closeness was very oppressive, and in the heat 
of the day, just after dinner, they could do nothing hut 
lie on the table, while the Queen told stories of her old 
life in France, till sometimes they both went to sleep. 
Most of her dainty needlework was done in the long 
light mornings, for she hardly slept at aU in the hot 
nights. Cis scarcely saw her in bed, for she prayed 
long after the maiden had fallen asleep, and was up 
with the light and embroidering by the window. 

She only now began to urge Cicely to believe as she 
did, and to join her Church, taking blame to herself for 
never having attempted it more seriously. She told of 
the oneness and the glory of Eoman Catholicism as 
she had seen it in France, held out its promises and 
professions, and dwelt on the comfort of the intercession 
of the Blessed Virgin and the Saints ; assuring Cicely 
that there was nothing but sacrilege, confusion, and 
cruelty on the other side. 

Sometimes the maiden was much moved by the 
tender manner and persuasive words, and she really 
had so much affection and admiration for her mother as 
to be willing to do all that she wished, and to believe her 
the ablest and most clear-sighted of human beings ; but 
wlienever Mary was not actually talking to her, there 
was a curious swaying back of the pendulum in her mind 
to the conviction that what Master Eichard and Mistress 
Susan beEeved must be the right thing, that led to 


396 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

trustworthy goodness. She had an enthusiastic love 
for the Queen, but her faith and trust were in them and 
in Humfrey, and she could see religious matters from 
their point of view better than from that of her mother. 

So, though the Queen often felt herself carrying her 
daughter along, she always found that there had been 
a slipping back to the old standpoint every time she 
began again. She was considering with some anxiety 
of the young maiden’s future. 

“ Could I hut send thee to my good sister, the 
Duchess of Lorraine, she would see thee well and 
royally married,” she said. “ Then couldst thou he 
known hy thine own name, and rank as Princess of Scot- 
land. If I can only see my Courcelles again, she would 
take thee safely and prove all — and thy hand will he 
precious to many. It may yet bring hack the true 
faith to England, when my hrave cousin of Guise has 
put down the B^arnese, and when the poor stumhHng- 
hlock here is taken away.” 

“ Oh speak not of that, dear madam, my mother.” 

“ I must speak, child. I must think how it will 
be with thee, so marvellously saved, and restored to 
be my comfort. I must provide for thy safety and 
honour. Happily the saints guarded me from ever 
mentioning thee in my letters, so that there is no fear 
that Elizabeth should lay hands on thee, unless 
Langston should have spoken — the which can hardly 
be. But if all be broken up here, I must find thee a 
dwelling with my kindred worthy of thy birth.” 

“ Mr. and Mrs. Talbot would take me home,” mur- 
mured Cicely. 

“ Girl ! After aU the training I have bestowed on 
thee, is it possible that thou wouldst fain go back to 
make cheeses and brew small beer with those Yorkshire 


tI:te-a-tete. 


XXX.] 


397 


boors, rather than reign a princess ? I thought thy 
heart was nobler.” 

Cicely hung her head ashamed. I was very 
happy there,” she said in excuse. 

“ Happy — ay, with the milkmaid’s bliss. There 
may be fewer sorrows in such a life as that — ^just as 
those comely kine of Ashton’s that I see grazing in the 
park have fewer sorrows than human creatures. But 
what know they of our joys, or what know the 
commonalty of the joy of ruling, calling brave men 
one’s own, riding before one’s men in the field, wielding 
counsels of State, winning the love of thousands ? 
Nay, nay, I will not believe it of my child, unless ’tis 
the base Border blood that is in her which speaks.” 

Cicely was somewhat overborne by being thus 
accused of meanness of tastes, when she had heard 
the Queen talk enviously of that same homely life 
which now she despised so heartily. She faltered in 
excuse, “ Methought, madam, you would be glad to 
think there was one loving shelter ever open to me.” 

“ Loving ! Ah ! I see what it is,” said the Queen, 
in a tone of disgust. “ It is the sailor loon that has 
overthrown it all. A couple of walks in the garden 
with him, and the silly maid is ready to throw over aU 
nobler thoughts.” 

“ Madam, he spoke no such word to me.” 

“ ’Twas the infection, child — only the infection.’* 

“ IMadam, I pray you ” 

“ Whist, child. Thou wilt be a perilous bride for 
any commoner, and let that thought, if no other, keep 
thee from lowering thine eyes to such as he. Were I 
and thy brother taken out of the way, none would 
stand between thee and both thrones ! Wliat would 
English or Scots say to find thee a household Joan, 


398 UNKNOWN TO HISTOEV^. [CHAP. 

wedded to one of Drake’s rude pirate fellows ? I 
tell tliee it would be the worse for him. They have 
made it treason to wed royal blood without Elizabeth’s 
consent. No, no, for his sake, as well as thine own, 
thou must promise me never thus to debase thy royal 
lineage.” 

“ IMother ; neither he nor I have thought or spoken 
of such a matter since we knew how it was with 
me.” 

“ And you give me your word ? ” 

“ Yea, madam,” said Cicely, who had really nevei 
entertained the idea of marrying Hurnfrey, implicit 
as was her trust in him as a brother and protector. 

“ That is well. And so soon as I am restored to 
my poor servants, if I ever am, I will take measures 
for sending the Erench remnant to their own land ; nor 
shall my Courcelles quit thee till she hath seen thee 
safe in the keeping of Madame de Lorraine or of Queen 
Louise, who is herself a kinswoman of ours, and, they 
say, is piety and gentleness itself.” 

“ As you will, madam,” said Cicely, her heart sink- 
ing at the thought of the strange new world before her, 
but perceiving that she must not be the means of 
brmging Hurnfrey into trouble and danger. 

Perhaps she felt this the more from seeing how 
acutely her mother suffered at times from sorrow for 
those involved in her disaster. She gave Babington 
and his companions, as well as Nau and Curll, up for 
lost, as the natural consequence of having befriended 
her ; and she blamed herself remorsefully, after the 
long experience of the fatal consequences of meddling 
in her affairs, for having entered into correspondence 
with the bright enthusiastic boy whom she remembered, 
and having lured him without doubt to his death. 


lilTE-A-TllTE. 


399 


XXX.] 

“ Alack ! alack ! ” she said, " and yet such is 
liberty, that I should forget all I have gone through, 
and do the like again, if the door seemed opened to 
me. At least there is this comfort, cruel child, thy 
little heart was not set on him, gracious and hand- 
some though he were — and thy mother’s most devoted 
knight ! Ah ! poor youth, it wrings my soul to tliink 
of him. But at least he is a Catliolic, his soul will be 
safe, and I will have hundreds of massfes sung for him. 
Oh tliat I knew how it goes with them ! I his torture 
of silent suspense is the most cruel of all.” 

Mary paced the room with impatient misery, and 
in such a round the weary hours dragged by, only 
mitigated by one welcome thunderstorm, for seventeen 
days, whose summer length made them seem the more 
endless. Cicely, who had never before in her life been 
shut up in the house so many hours, was pale, listless, 
and even fretful towards the Queen, who bore with her 
petulance so tenderly as more than once to make her 
weep bitterly for very shame. After one of these fits 
of tears, Mary pleaded earnestly with Sir Walter 
Ashton for permission for the maiden to take a turn in 
the garden every day, but though the good gentleman’s 
complexion bore testimony that he lived in the fresh 
air, he did not believe in its efficacy ; he said he had 
no orders, and could do nothing without warrant. But 
that evening at supper, the serving-maid brought up a 
large brew of herbs, dark and nauseous, which Dame 
Ashton had sent as good for the young lady’s 
megrim. 

“Will you taste it, sir ?” asked the Queen of Sir 
Walter, with a revival of her lively humour. 

“ The foul fiend have me if a drop comes within 
my lips,” muttered the knight. “ I am not bound to 


400 UNKNOWN TO IlISTOKY. [CHAP. 

taste for a tirewoman !” he added, leaving it in doubt 
whether his objection arose from distaste to his ladj’s 
messes, or from pride; and he presently said, perhaps 
half-ashamed of himself, and willing to cast the blame 
on the other side, 

“ It was kindly meant of my good dame, and if yon 
choose to flout at, rather than benefit by it, that is no 
affair of mine.” 

He left the’ potion, and Cicely disposed of it by 
small instalments at the windows ; and a laugh over 
the evident horror it excited in the master, did the 
captives at least as much good as the camomile, 
centaury, wormwood, and other ingredients of the 
bowl. 

Happily it was only two days later that Sir Walter 
announced that his custody of the Queen was over, 
and Sir Amias Paulett was come for her. There was 
little preparation to make, for the two ladies had worn 
their riding-dresses aU. the time ; but on reaching the 
great door, where Sir Amias, attended by Humfrey, was 
awaiting them, they were astonished to see a whole 
troop on horseback, all armed with head-pieces, swords 
and pistols, to the number of a hundred and forty. 

“ Wherefore is this little army raised ? ” she asked. 

“ It is by order of the Queen,” replied Ashton, with 
his accustomed surly manner, “ and need enough in 
the time of such treasons !” 

The Queen turned to him with tears on her cheeks. 
"Good gentlemen,” she said, "I am not witting of 
anything against the Queen. Am I to be taken to the 
Tower ?” 

" Ho, madam, back to Chartley,” replied Sir Amias. 

“ I knew they would never let me see my cousin,” 
sighed the Queen. “ Sir,” as Paulett placed her on 


T^lTE-A-xilTE. 


XXX.] 


401 


her hoiso, " of your pity tell me whether I shall find 
all my poor servants there.” 

“Yea, madam, save Mr. Nau and Mr. CnrU, who 
are answering for themselves and for you. Moreover, 
Curll’s wife was delivered two days since.” 

This intelligence fiUed Mary with more anxiety 
than she chose to manifest to her unsympathising 
surroundings ; Cis meanwhile had been assisted to 
mount by Humfrey, who told her that Mrs. CurU was 
thought to be doing well, but that there were fears for 
the babe. It was impossible to exchange many words, 
for they were immediately behind the Queen and her 
two warders, and Humfrey could only teU her that his 
father had been at Chartley, and had gone on to London ; 
but there was inexpressible relief in hearing the sound 
of his voice, and knowing she had some one to think for 
her and protect her. The promise she had made to the 
Queen only seemed to make him more entirely her 
brother by putting that other love out of the question. 

There was a sad sight at the gate, — a whole multitude 
of wretched-looking beggars, and poor of all ages and 
degrees of misery, who all held out their hands and 
raised one cry of “Alms, alms, gracious Lady, alms, for 
the love of heaven !” 

Mary looked round on them with tearful eyes, and 
exclaimed, “Alack, good folk, I have nothing to give 
you ! I am as much a beggar as yourselves !” 

The escort dispersed them roughly, Paulett assuring 
her that they were nothing but “ a sort of idle folk,” 
vdio were only encouraged in laziness by her bounty, 
which was very possibly true of a certain proportion 
of them, but it had been a sore grief to her that since 
Cuthbert Langston’s last approach in disguise she had 
been prevented from giving alms. 

2 D 


4.02 


UNKNOWN TO IIldTOliY. 


[CJIAI*. 


In due time Cliartley was reached, and the first 
thing the Queen did on dismounting was to hurry to 
visit poor Barbara Curll, who had — on her increasiug 
illness — been removed to one of the guest-chambers, 
where the Queen now found her, still in much distress 
about her husband, who was in close imprisonment in 
Walsingham’s house, and had not been allowed to send 
her any kind of message ; and in still more immediate 
anxiety about her new-born infant, who did not look 
at all as if its little life would last many hours. 

She lifted up her languid eyelids, and scarcely smiled 
when the Queen declared, “ See, Barbara, I am come 
back again to you, to nurse you and my god-daughter 
into health to receive your husband again. Nay, have 
no fears for him. They cannot hurt him. He has 
done nothing, and is a Scottish subject beside. My 
son shall write to claim him,” she declared with such 
an assumed air of confidence that a shade of hope 
crossed the pale face, and the fear for her child became 
the more pressing of the two griefs. 

“We will christen her at once,” said Mary, turning 
to the nearest attendant. “ Bear a request from me to 
Sir Amias that his chaplain may come at once and 
baptize my god-child.” 

Sir Amias was waiting in the gallery in very ill- 
humour at the Queen’s delay, which kept his supper 
waiting. Moreover, his party had a strong dislike to 
private baptism, holding that the important point was 
the public covenant made by responsible persons, and 
the notion of the sponsorship of a Eoman Catholic 
likewise shocked him. So he made ungracious answer 
that he would have no baptism save in church before 
the congregation, with true Protestant gossips. 

“ So saith he ?” exclaimed Mary, when the reply 


TETE-A-lilTB. 


403 


XXX.] 

was reported io her. "Nay, my poor little one, thou 
shalt not be shut out of the Kingdom of Heaven for his 
churlishness.” And taking the infant on her knee, she 
dipped her hand in the bowl of water that had been 
prepared for the chaplain, and baptized it by her own 
name of Mary. 

The existing Prayer-book had been made expressly 
to forbid lay baptism and baptism by women, at the 
special desire of the reformers, and Sir Amias w^as 
proportionately horrified, and told her it was an offence 
for the Archbishop’s court. 

“ Very like,” said Mary. " Your Protestant courts 
love to slay both body and soul. Will it please you 
to open my own chambers to me, sir?” 

Sir Amias handed the key to one of her servants, 
but she motioned him aside. 

“Those who put me forth must admit me,” she 
said. 

The door was opened by one of the gentlemen of 
the household, and they entered. Every repository had 
been ransacked, every cabinet stood open and empty, 
every drawer had been pulled out. Wearing apparel 
and the Hke remained, but even this showed signs of 
having been tossed over and roughly rearranged by 
masculine fingers. 

Mary stood in the midst of the room, which had 
a strange air of desolation, an angry light in her eyes, 
and her hands clasped tightly one into the other. 
Paulett attempted some expression of regret for the 
disarray, pleading his orders. 

“ It needs not excuse, sir,” said Mary, " I understand 
to whom I owe this insult. There are two things that 
your Queen can never take from me — royal blood and 
the Catholic faith. One day sc me of you wiU be sorry 


404 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

for what you have now put upon me ! I would he 
alone, sir,” and she proudly motioned him to tlie door, 
with a haughty gesture, showing her still fully Queen 
in her own apartments. Paulett obeyed, and wlien he 
was gone, the Queen seemed to abandon the command 
over herself she had preserved all this time. She 
threw hemelf into Jean Kennedy’s arms, and wept 
freely and piteously, while the good lady, rejoicing at 
heart to have recovered “ her bairn,” fondled and 
soothed her with soft Scottish epithets, as though the 
worn woman had been a child again. “Yea, nurse, 
mine own nurse, I am come hack to thee ; for a little 
while — only a little while, nurse, for they will have 
my blood, and oh ! I would it were ended, for I am 
aweary of it all.” 

Jean and Elizabeth Curll tried to cheer and console 
her, alarmed at this unwonted depression, but she only 
said, “ Get me to bed, nurse, I am sair forfaughten.” 

She was altogether broken down by the long 
suspense, the hardships and the imprisonment she had 
undergone, and she kept her bed for several days, 
hardly speaking, but apparently reposing in the relief 
afforded by the recovered care and companionship of 
her much-loved attendants. 

There she was when Paulett came to demand the 
keys of the caskets where her treasure was kept. 
Melville had refused to yield them, and all the Queen 
said was, “ Eobbery is to be added to the rest,” a 
sentence which greatly stung the knight, but he actu- 
ally seized all the coin that he found, including what 
belonged to Nau and Curll, and, only retaining enoT.igh 
for present expenses, sent the rest off to Loudon, 


EVIDENCE. 


405 


xxxl] 


CHAPTEE XXXL 

EVIDENCE. 

In the meantime the two Eichard Talbots, father 
and son, had safely arrived in London, and had been 
made welcome at the house of their noble kinsman. 

Nau and Curll, they heard, were in Walsingham’s 
house, subjected to close examination ; Babington and 
all his comrades were in the Tower. The Council was 
continually sitting to deliberate over the fate of the latter 
unliappy men, of whose guilt there was no doubt ; and 
neither Lord Talbot nor WiU Cavendish thought there 
was any possibility of Master Eichard gaining permis- 
sion to plead how the unfortunate Babington had been 
worked on and deceived. After the sentence should 
be pronounced, Cavendish thought that the request of 
the Earl of Shrewsbury might prevail to obtain per- 
mission for an interview between the prisoner and 
one commissioned by his former guardian. Will was 
daily attending Sir Francis Walsingham as his clerk, 
and was not by any means unwilling to relate anything 
he had been able to learn. 

Queen Elizabeth was, it seemed, greatly agitated 
and distressed. The shock to her nerves on the day 
when she had so bravely overawed Barnwell with the 
power of her eye had been such as not to be easily 


406 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CH.VP. 

surmounted. She was restless and full of anxiety, 
continually starting at every sound, and beginning 
letters to the Queen of Scots which were never finished. 
She had more than once inquired after the brave sailor 
youths who had come so opportunely to her rescue ; 
and Lord Talbot thought it would be well to present 
Diccon and his father to her, and accordingly took 
them with him to Greenwich Palace, where they had 
the benefit of looking on as loyal subjects, while her 
Majesty, in royal fashion, dined in public, to the sound 
of drums, trumpets, fifes, and stringed instruments. 
But though dressed with her usual elaborate care, she 
looked older, paler, thinner, and more haggard than 
when Diccon had seen her three weeks previously, and 
neither her eye nor mouth had the same steadiness. 
She did not eat with relish, but almost as if she were 
forcing herself, lest any lack of appetite might be ob- 
served and commented upon, and her looks continually 
wandered as though in search of some lurking enemy ; 
for in truth no woman, nor man either, could easily 
forget the suggestion which had recently been brought 
to her knowledge, that an assassin might “ lurk in her 
gallery and stab her with his dagger, or if she should 
walk in her garden, he might shoot her with his dagg- 
er if she should walk abroad to take the air, he might 
assault her with his arming sword and make sure 
work.” -Even though the enemies were safe in prison, 
she knew not but that dagger, dagg, or anning sword 
might still be ready for her, and she believed that any 
fatal charge openly made against Mary at the trial might 
drive her friends to desperation and lead to the use of 
dagg or dagger. She was more unhinged than ever 
before, and commanded herself with difficulty when 
going through all tlie scenes of her public life as usual 


EVIDENCE. 


407 


XXXI.] 

The Talbots soon felt her keen eye on them, and 
a look of recognition passed over her face as she saw 
Diccon. As soon as the meal was over, and the table 
of trestles removed, she sent a page to command Lord 
Talbot to present them to her. 

“ So, sir,” she said, as Eichard the elder knelt before 
her, “ you are the father of two brave sons, whom you 
have bred up to do good service ; but I only see one 
of them here. Where is the elder ?” 

“ So please your Majesty, Sir Amias Paulett desired 
to retain him at Chartley to assist in guarding the 
Queen of Scots.” 

“ It is well. Paulett knows a trusty lad when he 
sees him. And so do I. I would have the youths 
both for my gentlemen pensioners — the elder when he 
can be spared from his charge, this stripling at once.” 

“We are much beholden to your Majesty,” said 
Eichard, bending his head the lower as he knelt on one 
knee ; for such an appointment gave both training and 
recommendation to young country gentlemen, and was 
much sought after. 

“ Methinks,” said Elizabeth, who had the royal 
faculty of remembering faces, “ you have yourself so 
served us, Mr. Talbot ?” 

“ I was for three years in the band of your. Ma- 
jesty’s sister. Queen Mary,” said Eichard, “ but I 
quitted it on her death to serve at sea, and I have 
since been in charge at Sheffield, under my Lord of 
Shrewsbury.” 

“We have heard that he hath found you a faithful 
servant,” said the Queen, “ yea, so weU affected as 
even to have refused your daughter in marriage to this 
same Babington. Is this true ? ” 

“ It is, so please your Majesty.” 


408 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

“And it was because you already perceived his 
villainy ?” 

“There were many causes, Madam,” said Richard, 
catching at the chance of saying a word for the un- 
happy lad, “ but it was not so much villainy that I 
I)erceived in him as a nature that might be easily 
practised upon by worse men than himself.” 

“ Not so much a villain ready made as the stuff 
villains are made of,” said the Queen, satisfied with her 
own repartee. 

“So please your Majesty, the metal that in good 
hands becomes a brave sword, in evil ones becomes a 
treacherous dagger.” 

“ Well said. Master Captain, and therefore we must 
destroy alike the dagger and the hands that perverted 
it.” 

“Yet,” ventured Richard, “the dagger attempered 
by your Majesty’s clemency might yet do noble ser- 
vice.” 

Elizabeth, however, broke out fiercely with one of 
her wonted oaths. 

“ How now ? Thou wouldst not plead for the 
rascal ! I would have you to know that to crave 
pardon for such a fellow is well-nigh treason in iteelf. 
You have license to leave us, sir.” 

“ I should scarce have brought you, Richard,” said 
Lord Talbot, as soon as they had left the presence 
chamber, “ had I known you would venture on such 
folly. Know you not how incensed she is ? Naught 
but your proved loyalty and my father’s could have 
borne you off this time, and it would be small marvel 
to me if the lad’s appointment w>ere forgotten.” 

“ I could not choose but run the risk,” said Richard 
“ What else came I to London for V’ 


EVIDENCE. 


4C/9 


XXXI J 

“ Well,” said his cousin, “ you are a brave man, 
Kichard Talbot. I know those who had rather scale a 
Spanish fortress than face Queen Elizabeth in her 
wrath. Her tongue is sharper than even my step- 
dame’s, though it doth not run on so long.” 

Lord Talbot was not quite easy when that evening 
a gentleman, clad in rich scarlet and gold, and armed 
to the teeth, presented himself at Shrewsbury House 
and inquired for Mr.’ Talbot of Bridgefield. However, 
it proved to be the officer of the troop of gentlemen 
pensioners come to enroll Diccon, tell him the require- 
ments, and arrange when he should join in a capacity 
something like that of an esquire to one of the seniors 
of the troop. Humfrey was likewise inquired for, but 
it was thought better on all accounts that he should 
continue in his present situation, since it was especially 
needful to have trustworthy persons at Chartley in the 
existing crisis. Master Eichard was well satisfied to 
find that his son’s immediate superior would be a 
gentleman of a good Yorkshire family, whose father 
was known to him, and who promised to have a care 
of Master Eichard the younger, and preserve liim, as 
far as possible, from the perils of dicing, drinking, and 
running into bad company. 

Launching a son in this manner and equipping him 
for service was an anxious task for a father, while day 
after day the trial was deferred, the examinations being 
secretly carried on before the Council till, as Cavendish 
explained, what was important should be disclosed. 

Of coimse this implied what should be fatal to 
Queen Mary. The priest BaUard was racked, but he 
was a man of great determination, and nothing was 
ehcited from him. The other prisoners, and Nau and 
CurU, were questioned again and again under threats 


410 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

and promises before the Council, and the letters that 
had been copied on their transit through the beer ban els 
were read and made the subject of cross-examination — 
still all in private, for, as Cavendish said, “ perilous stuff 
to the Queen’s Majesty might come out.” 

He allowed, however, day after day, that though 
there was quite enough to be fatal to Ballard, Babing- 
ton, Savage, and Barnwell, whatever else was wanting 
was not forthcoming. At last, however, Cavendish 
returned full of a certain exultation : “We have it,” 
he said, — “ a most undoubted treasonable letter, which 
will catch her between the shoulders and the head.” 

He spoke to Lord Talbot and Eichard, who were 
standing together in a window, and who knew only too 
well who was referred to, and what the expression 
signified. On a further query from his step-brother, 
Cavendish explained that it was a long letter, dated 
July 15, arranging in detail the plan for “the. Lady’s” 
own rescue from Chartley at the moment of the landing 
of the Spaniards, and likewise showing her privy to 
the design of the six gentlemen against the life of the 
Qneen, and desiring to know their names. Nan had, 
he said, verified the cipher as one used in the corre- 
spondence, and Babington, when it was shown to him, 
had declared that it had been given to him in the 
street by a stranger serving-man in a blue coat, and 
that it had removed all doubt from his mind, as it was 
an answer to a letter of his, a copy of which had been 
produced, but not the letter itself. 

“ Which we have not found,” said Cavendish. 

“ Not for all that search of yours at Chartley ?” said 
Eichard. “ IMethought it was thorough enough ! ” 

“ The Lady must have been marvell ously prudent as 
to the keeping of letters,” said WiU, “ or else she must 


EVIDENCE. 


411 


XXXI.] 

have received some warniug ; for there is absolutely 
naught to be found in her repositories that will serve 
our purpose.” 

“ Our purpose !” repeated Eichard, as he recollected 
many little kindnesses that William Cavendish when a 
boy had received from the prisoner at Sheffield. 

“ Yea, Master Eichard,” he returned, unabashed. 
“It is absolutely needful that we should openly prove 
this woman to be what we know her to be in secret. 
Her Majesty’s life wiU never he safe for a moment 
wliile she lives ; and what would become of us aU did 
she overlive the Queen ! ” 

“ Well, Will, for all your mighty word we, you are 
but the pen in Mr. Secretary’s hand, so there is no 
need to argue the matter with you,” said Eichard. 

The speech considerably nettled Master WiUiam, 
especially as it made Lord* Talbot laugh. 

“ Father !” said Diccon afterwards, “ Humfrey tried 
to warn Mr. Babington that we had seen this Lang- 
ston, who hath as many metamorphoses as there be in 
Ovidius Haso, coming privily forth from Sir Francis 
Walsingham’s closet, but he would not listen, and 
declared that Langston was holding Mr. Secretary in 

play.” 

“ Deceiving and being deceived,” sighed his father. 
“ That is ever the way, my son ! Eem ember that if 
thou playest false, other men will play falser with thee 
and bring thee to thy ruin. I would not leave thee 
here save that the gentlemen pensioners are a more 
honest and manly sort of folk than yonder gentlemen 
with their state craft, wherein they throw over all truth 
and honour as well as mercy.” 

This conversation took place as the father and son 
were making their way to a house in Westminster, 


412 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

where Antony Babington’s wife was with her mother, 
Lady Eatcliife. It had been a match made by Lady 
Shrewsbury, and it was part of Kichard’s commission 
to see and confer with the family. It was not a satis- 
factory interview. The wife was a diiU childish little 
thing, not yet sixteen ; and though she cried, she had 
plainly never lived in any real sympathy or companion- 
ship with her husband, who had left her with her 
parents, while leading the life of mingled amusement 
and intrigue which had brought him to his present 
state ; and the mother, a hard-featured woman, evidently 
thought herself cheated and ill used. She railed at 
Babington and at my Lady Countess by turns ; at the 
one for his ruinous courses and neglect of her daughter, 
at the other for having cozened her into giving her poor 
child to a treacherous Papist, who would be attainted in 
blood, and thus bring her poor daughter and grandchild 
to poverty. The old lady really seemed to have lost aU 
pity for her son-in-law in indignation on her daughter’s 
account, and to care infinitely less for the saving of his 
life than for the saving of his estate. Nor did the 
young wife herself appear to possess much real affection 
for poor Antony, of whom she had seen very little. 
There must have been great faults on his side ; yet 
certainly Eichard felt that there was some excuse for 
liim in the mother-in-law, and that if the unfortunate 
young man could have married Cicely his lot might 
have been different. Yet the good Captain felt aU 
the more that if Cis had been his ®wn he still would 
never have given her to Babington, 


xxkil] 


WESTMINSTER HALL. 


413 


CHAPTEE XXXH 

WESTMINSTER HALL. 

Beneath trhe noble roof of Westminster Hall, with the 
morning sun streaming in high aloft, at seven in the 
morning of the 14th of September, the Court met for the 
trial of Antony Babington and his confederates. The 
Talbot name and recommendation obtained ready ad- 
mission, and Lord Talbot, Richard, and his son formed 
one small party together with William Cavendish, who 
had his tablets, on which to take notes for the use of 
his superior, Walsingham, who was, however, one of the 
Commissioners. 

There they sat, those supreme judges, the three 
Chief- Justices in their scarlet robes of office forming 
the centre of the group, which also numbered Lords 
Cobham and Buckhurst, Sir Francis KnoUys, Sir 
Christopher Hatton, and most of the chief law officers 
of the Crown. 

“ Is Mr. Secretary Walsingham one of the judges 
here ?” asked Diccon. “ Methought he had been in 
the place of the accuser.” 

“ Peace, boy, and listen,” said his father ; “ these 
things pass my comprehension.” 

Nevertheless Richard had determined that if the 
course of the trial should offer the least opportunity, 


414 


UNKNOWN TO TUSrORY. 


[CHAP 


he would ccme forward and plead his former knowledge 
of young Babington as a rash and weak-headed youth, 
easily played upon by designing persons, but likely to 
take to heart such a lesson as this, and become a true 
and loyal subject. If he could obtain any sort of miti- 
gation for the poor youth, it would be worth the risk. 

The seven conspirators were brought in, and Eichard 
could hardly keep a rush of tears from his eyes at the 
sight of those fine, high-spirited young men, especially 
Antony Babington, the playfellow of his own children. 

Antony was carefully dressed in his favourite col- 
our, dark green, his hair and beard trimmed, and his 
demeanour calm and resigned. The fire was gone 
from his blue eye, and his bright complexion had 
faded, but there was an air of dignity about him such as 
he had never worn before. His eyes, as he took his 
place, wandered round the vast assembly, and rested 
at length on Mr. Talbot, as though deriving encourage- 
ment and support from the look that met his. Next 
to him was another young man with the same look of 
birth and breeding, namely Chidiock Ticliborne ; but 
John Savage, an older man, had the reckless bearing 
of the brutalised soldiery of the Netherlandish wars. 
Eobert Barnwell, with his red, shaggy brows and Irish 
physiognomy, was at once recognised by Diccon. Donne 
and Salisbury followed ; and the seventh conspirator, 
John Ballard, was carried in a chair. Even Diccon’s 
quick eye could hardly have detected the ruffling, swag- 
gering, richly-clad Captain Fortescue in tliis tonsured 
man in priestly garb, deadly pale, and unable to stand, 
from the effects of torture, yet with undaunted, penetrat- 
ing eyes, all unsubdued. 

After the proclamation, Oyez, Oyez, and the com- 
mand to keep silence, Sandys, the Clerk of the Crown, 


WESTMINSTER HALl^ 


415 


XXXII.] 

began the proceedings. “John Ballard, Antony Bah- 
ington, Johfi Savage, Eobert Barnwell, Chidiock Tich- 
borne, Henry Donne, Thomas Salisbury, hold up your 
hands and answer.” The indictment was then read 
at great length, charging them with conspiring to slay 
the Queen, to deliver Mary, Queen of Scots, from 
custody, to stir up rebellion, to bring the Spaniards 
to invade England, and to change the religion of the 
country. The question was first put to Ballard, Was 
he guilty of these treasons or not guilty ? 

. Ballard’s reply was, “ That I procure 1 the delivery 
of the Queen of Scots, I am guilty ; and that I went 
about to alter the religion, I am guilty ; but that I 
intended to slay her Majesty, I am not guilty.” 

“ Not with his own hand,” muttered Cavendish, 
“ but for the rest ” 

“Pity that what is so bravely spoken should be 
false,” thought Eichard, “yet it may be to leave the 
way open to defence.” 

Sandys, however, insisted that he must plead to the 
whole indictment, and Anderson, the Chief- Justice of 
Common Pleas, declared that he must deny the whole 
generally, or confess it generally ; while Hatton put in, 
“ Ballard, under thine own hand are all things confessed, 
therefore now it is much vanity to stand vaingloriously 
in denying it.” 

“ Then, sir, I confess I am guilty,” he said, with 
great calmness, though it was the resignation of all 
hope. 

Tlie same question was then put to Babington. 
He, with “ a mild countenance, sober gesture,” and all 
his natural grace, stoc d up and spoke, saying “ that the 
time for concealment was past, and that he was ready 
to avow how from his earliest infancy he had believed 


416 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

England to have fallen from the true religion, and had 
trusted to see it restored thereto. Moreover, he had 
ever a deep love and compassion for the Queen of 
Scots. Some,” he said, “ who are yet at large, and 
who are yet as deep in the matter as I ” 

“ Gifford, Morgan, and another,” whispered Caven- 
dish significantly. 

“ Have they escaped ?” asked Diccon. 

“ So ’tis said.” 

“ The decoy ducks,” thought Eichard. 

Bahington was explaining that these men had 
proposed to him a great enterprise for the rescue and 
restoration of the Queen of Scots, and the re-establish- 
ment of the Catholic religion in England by the sword 
of the Prince of Parma. A body of gentlemen were to 
attack Chartley, free Mary, and proclaim her Queen, 
and at the same time Queen Elizabeth was to be put 
to death by some speedy and skilful method. 

“ My Lords,” he said, “ I swear that all that was in 
me cried out against the wickedness of thus privily 
slaying her Majesty.” 

Some muttered, “ The villain ! he lies,” but the 
cindly Eichard siglied inaudibly, “ True, poor lad ! 
Thou must have given thy conscience over to strange 
keepers to be thus led astray.” 

And Bahington went on to say that they had 
brought this gentleman. Father Ballard, who had 
wrought with him to prove that his scruples were 
weak, carnal, and ungodly, and that it would be a 
meritorious deed in the sight of Heaven thus to remove 
the heretic usurper. 

Here the judges sternly bade him not to blaspheme, 
and he replied, with that “ soberness and good grace ” 
which seems to have struck all the beholders, that he 


XXXII.] 


WESTMINSTER HALL. 


417 


craved patience and pardon, meaning only to ex- 
plain how he had been led to the madness which he 
now repented, understanding himself to have been in 
grievous error, though not for the sake of any temporal 
reward ; but being blinded to the guile, and assured that 
the deed was both lawful and meritorious. He thus 
had been brought to destruction through the persuasions 
of this Ballard. 

“ A very fit author for so bad a fact,” responded 
Hatton. 

“ Very true, sir,” said Babington ; " for from so bad 
a ground never proceed any better fruits. He it was 
who persuaded me to kill the Queen, and to commit 
the other treasons, whereof I confess myself guilty.” 

Savage pleaded guilty at once, with the reckless 
hardihood of a soldier accustomed to look on death as 
the fortune of war. > 

Barnwell denied any intention of killing the Queen 
(much to Diccon’s surprise), but pleaded guilty to the 
rest. Donne said that on being told of the plot he had 
prayed that whatever was most to the honour anu 
glory of Heaven might be done, and being pushed hard 
by Hatton, turned this into a confession of being guilty. 
Salisbury declared that he had always protested against 
killing the Queen, and that he would not have done so 
for a kingdom, but of the rest he was guilty. Tich- 
borne showed that but for an accidental lameness he 
would have been at his home in Hampshire, but he 
could not deny his knowledge of the treason. 

All having pleaded guilty, no trial was permitted, 
B ii'.h as would have brought out the different degrees 
of guilt, which varied in all the seven. 

A long speech was, however, made by the counsel 
for the Crown, detailing the plot as it had been ar* 
2 E 


418 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[OHAP. 


ranged for the public knowledge, and reading aloud a 
letter from Babington to Queen Mary, describing his 
plans both for her rescue and the assassination, saying, 
“ he had appointed six noble gentlemen for the despatch 
of the wicked competitor.” 

Eichard caught a look of astonishment on the in- 
happy young man’s face, but it passed into hopeless 
despondency, and the speech went on to describe the 
picture of the conspirators and its strange motto, con- 
cluding with an accusation that they meant to sack 
London, burn the ships, and “ cloy the ordnance.” 

A shudder of horror went through the assembly, 
and perhaps few except Eichard Talbot felt that the 
examination of the prisoners ought to have been public. 
The form, however, was gone through of asking whether 
they had cause to render wherefore they should not be 
condemned to die. 

The first to speak was Ballard. His eyes glanced 
round with an indomitable expression of scorn and 
indignation, which, as Diccon whispered, he could 
have felt to his very backbone. It was like that of a 
trapped and maimed lion, as the man sat in his chair 
with crushed and racked limbs, but with a spirit un- 
tamed in its defiance. 

“ Cause, my Lords ?” he replied. “ The cause I have 
to render wiU not avail here, but it may avail before 
another Judgment-seat, where the question wiU be, who 
used the weapons of treason, not merely against whom 
they were employed. Inquiry hath not been made 
here who suborned the priest. Dr. Gifford, to fetch me 
over from Paris, that we might together overcome the 
icruples of these young men, and lead them forward in 
a scheme for the promotion of the true religion and the 
right and lawful succession. No question bath here 


XXXII.] WESTMINSTER HALL. 4:1 

been put in open court, who framed the conspiracy, noi 
for what purpose. No, my Lords ; it would baflle the 
and you would bring about, yea, and blot the reputation 
of some who stand in high places, if it came to light 
that the plot was devised, not by the Catholics who 
were to be the instruments thereof, nor by the Lady in 
whose favour all was to be done, — not by these, the 
mere victims, but by him who by a triumph of policy 
thus sent forth his tempters to enclose them all within 
his net — above all the persecuted Lady whom all true 
Catholics own as the only lawful sovereign within 
these realms. Such schemes, when they succeed, are 
termed policy. My Lords, I confess that by the justice 
of England we have been guilty of treason against 
Queen Elizabeth ; but by the eternal law of the justice 
of God, we have suffered treachery far exceeding that 
for which we are about to die.” 

“ I marvel that they let the fellow speak so far,” 
was Cavendish’s comment. 

“ Nay, but is it so ?” asked Diccon with startled 
eyes. 

“ Hush ! you have yet to learn statecraft,” returned 
his friend. 

His father’s monitory hand only just saved the boy 
from bursting out with something that would have 
rather astonished Westminster Hall, and caused liim to 
be taken out by the ushers. It is not wonderful that 
no report of the priest’s speech has been preserved. 

The name of Antony Babington was then called. 
Probably he had been too much absorbed in the 
miser}' of his position to pay attention to the preceding 
speech, for his reply was quite independent of it. He 
prayed the Lords to believe, and to represent to her 
Majesty, that he had rrceived with horror the suggestion 


120 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


[CIUP 

of compassing her death, and had only been brought U 
believe it a terrible necessity by the persuasions of this 
BaUard. 

On this Hatton broke forth in indignant com- 
passion, — 0 Ballard ! Ballard ! what liast thou dene ? 
A sort of brave youth, otherwise endowed with good 
gifts, by thy inducement hast thou brought to their 
utter destruction and confusion !” 

This apparently gave some hope to Babington, for he 
answered — “ Yes, I protest that, before I met this Bal- 
lard, I never meant nor intended for to kill the Queen ; 
but by his persuasions I was induced to believe that 
she being excommunicate it was lawful to murder her.’ 

For the first time Ballard betrayed any pain. 
“ Yes, Mr. Babington,” he said, “ lay all the blame 
upon me; but I wish the shedding of my blood might 
be the saving of your life. Howbeit, say what you 
will, I will say no more.” 

“ He is the bravest of them all !” was Diccon’s 
comment. 

“ Wot you that he was once our spy ?” returned 
Cavendish with a sneer; while Sir Christopher, with 
the satisfaction of a little nature in uttering reproaches, 
returned — “Nay, Ballard, you must say more and shall 
say more, for you must not commit treasons and then 
huddle them up. Is this your Beligio Catholica ? Nay, 
rather it is Diabolical 

Ballard scorned to answer this, and the Clerk passed 
on to Savage, who retained his soldierly fatalism, and 
only shook his head. Barnwell again denied any pur- 
pose of injuring the Queen, and when Hatton spoke of 
his appearance in Eichmond Park, he said all had been 
for conscience sake. So said Henry Donne, but with 
far more piety and dignity, adding, Fiat volunsta 


XXXII.] 


WESTMINSTER HALL. 


42i 


Dei-/’ and Tb mas Salisbury was the only one wh« 
made any entreaty for pardon. 

Speeches followed from the Attorney-General, and 
fi-om Sir Christopher Hatton, and then the Lord Chief 
Justice Anderson pronounced the terrible sentence. 

Eichard Talbot sat with his head bowed between 
I'is hands. His son had begun listening with wide- 
siretched eyes and mouth, as boyhood hearkens to the 
dreadful, and with the hardness of an unmerciful time, 
too apt to confound pity with weakness ; but when 
his eye fell on the man he had followed about as an 
elder playmate, and realised all it conveyed, his cheek 
blanched, his jaw fell, and he hardly knew liow hLs 
father got him out of the court. 

There was clearly no hope. The form of the trial 
was such as to leave no chance of escape from the 
utmost penalty. No witnesses had been examined, no 
degrees of guilt acknowledged, no palliations admitted. 
Perhaps men who would have brought the Spanish 
havoc on their native country, and have murdered their 
sovereign, were beyond the pale of compassion. All 
London clearly thought so ; and yet, as Eichard Talbot 
dwelt on their tones and looks, and remembered how 
they had been deluded and tempted, and made to 
believe their deed meritorious, he could not but feel 
exceeding pity for tlie four younger men. Ballard, 
Savage, and Barnwell might be justly doomed ; even 
Babington had, by his own admission, entertained a 
fearfully evil design ; but the other three had evidently 
dipped far less deeply into the plot, and Tichborne 
liad only concealed it out of friendship. Yet the ruth- 
less judgment condemned all alike ! And why ? To 
justify a yet more cruel blow ! No wonder honest 
Richard Talbot felt sick at heart. 


DKKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


[chap. 


m 


CHAPTEK XXXIIL 

IN THE TOWER. 

‘ Here is a letter from Mr. Secretary to the Lieu- 
tenant of the Tower, Master Eicliard, bidding him 
admit you to speech of Babington,” said Will Cavendish. 
“ He was loath to give it, and nothing but my Lord 
Shrewsbury’s interest would have done it, on my oath 
that you are a prudent and discreet man, who hath 
been conversant in these matters for many years.” 

“ Yea, and that long before you were. Master Will,” 
said Eichard, always a little entertained by the young 
gentleman’s airs of patronage. “ However, I am be- 
holden to you.” 

“ That you may be, for you are the only person 
who hath obtained admission to the prisoners.” 

“ Not even their wives ?” 

“Mrs. Tichborne is in the country — so best foi 
her — and Mrs. Babington hath never demanded it. I 
trow there is not love enough between them to make 
them seek such a meeting. It was one of my mother’s 
matches. Mistress Cicely would have cleaved to him 
more closely, though I am glad you saw through the 
feUow too well to give her to him. She would be a 
landless widow, whereas this Eatcliffe wife has a fair 
portion for her child.” 


IN THE TOWER. 


423 


XXXIII.] 

“Then Dethick will be forfeited?” 

“Ay. They say the Queen hath promised it to 
Raleigh.” 

“And there is no hope of mercy?” 

“Not a tittle for any man of them ! Nay, so fai 
from it, her Majesty asked if there were no worse nor 
more extraordinary mode of death for them.” 

“ I should not have thought it of her.” 

“ Her Majesty hath been affrighted. Master Richard, 
sorely affrighted, though she put so bold a face upon 
it, and there is nothing a woman, who prides herself 
on her courage, can so little pardon.” 

So Richard, sad at heart, took boat and ascended 
the Thames for his melancholy visit. The gateway was 
guarded by a stalwart yeoman, halbert in hand, who 
detained him while the officer of the guard was called. 
On showing the letter from Sir Francis Walsinghani, 
Mr. Talbot was conducted by this personage across the 
first paved court to the lodgings of the Lieutenant 
under so close a guard that he felt as if he were about 
to be incarcerated himself, and was there kept waiting 
in a sort of guard-room while the letter was delivered. 

Presently the Lieutenant, Sir Owen Hopton, a well- 
bred courteous knight, appeared and saluted him with 
apologies for his detention and all these precautions, 
saying that the orders were to keep a close guard and to 
hinder all communication from without, so that nothing 
short of this letter would have obtained entrance for 
the bearer, whom he further required to set down his 
v/ime and designation in full. Then, after asking how 
long tlie visitor wished to remain with the prisoners — 
for Tichborne and Labington were quartered together 
— he called a warder and committed Mr. Talbot to his 
guidance, to remain for two hours locked up in the cell 


424 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAF 

“Sir,” added Sir Owen, “it is superfluous to tell 
you that on coming out, you must either give me your 
word of honour that you convey nothing from the 
prisoners, or else submit to be searched.” 

Eichard smiled, and observed that men were wont 
to trust his word of honour, to which the knight 
heartily replied that he was sure of it, and he then 
followed the warder up stone stairs and along vaulted 
passages, where the clang of their footsteps made his 
heart sink. The prisoners were in the White Tower, 
the central body of the grim building, and the warder, 
after unlocking the door, announced, with no unneces- 
sary rudeness, but rather as if he were glad of any 
comfort to his charges, “ Here, sirs, is a gentleman to 
visit you.” 

They had both risen at the sound of the key turn- 
ing in the lock, and Antony Bahington’s face lighted 
up as he exclaimed, “ Mr. Talbot ! I knew you would 
come if it were possible.” 

“ I come by my Lord’s desire,” replied Eichard, the 
close wringing of his hand expressing feeling to which 
he durst not give way in words. 

He took in at the moment that the room, though 
stern and strong, was not squalid. It was lighted fully 
by a window, iron-barred, but not small, and according 
to custom, the prisoners had been permitted to furnish, 
at their own expense, sufficient garniture for comfort, 
and as both were wealthy men, they were fairly pro- 
vided, and they weic not fettered. Both looked paler 
than when Eichard had seen them in Westminster 
HaU two days previously. Antony was as usual 
aeatly arrayed, with well-trimmed hair and beard, but 
Tichborne’s hung neglected, and there was a hollow, 
haggard look about his eyes, as if of dismay at his 


IN THE TOWER. 


425 


XX Kill.] 

approaching fate. Neither was, however, forgetful of 
courtesy, and as Bahington presented Mr. Talbot to his 
friend, the greeting and welcome would have befitted 
the halls of Dethick or Tichborne. 

“ Sirs,” said the young man, with a sad smile irradi- 
ating for a moment the restless despair of his counte- 
nance, “ it is not by choice that I am an intruder on 
your privacy ; 1 will abstract myseK so far as is pos- 
sible.” 

" I have no secrets from my Chidiock,” cried 
Babington. 

" But Mr. Talbot may,” replied his friend, “ there- 
fore I will only first inquire whether he can tell 
us aught of the royal lady for whose sake we suffer. 
They have asked us many questions, but answered 
none,” 

Kichard was able to reply that after the seclusion 
at Tixall she had been brought back to Chartley, and 
there was no difference in the manner of her custody, 
moreover, that she had recovered from her attack of 
illness, tidings he had just received in a letter from 
Humfrey. He did not feel it needful to inflict a pang 
on the men who were to die in two days’ time by 
letting them know that she was to be immediately 
bi ought to trial on the evidence extracted from them. 
On hearing that her captivity wms not straitened, both 
looked relieved, and Tichborne, thanking him, lay 
down on his own bed, turned his face to the wall, and 
drew the covering over his head. 

“ Ah ! ” sighed Babington, “ is there no hope for 
him — he who has done naught but guard too faith- 
fully my unhappy secret ? Is he to die for his faith 
and honour ?” 

“ Alas, Antony ! I am forbidden to give thee hope 


426 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CIIAP. 

for any. Of that we must not speak. The time is 
sliort enough for what needs to be spoken.” 

“I knew that there was none for myself,” said 

A utony, “ but for those whom ” There was a 

gesture from Tichborne as if he could not bear this, 
and he went on, “ Yea, there is a matter on which I 
must needs speak to you, sir. The young lady — 
.\ here is she ?” — he spoke earnestly, and lowering his 
\ oice as he bent his head. 

“ She is still at Chartley.” 

“ That is well. But, sir, she must be guarded. I fear 
me there is one who is aware of her parentage.” 

“ The Scottish archer ?” 

“ No, the truth.” 

“ You knew it ?” 

“ Not when I made my suit to her, or I should 
never have dared to lift my eyes so far.” 

“ I suppose your knowledge came from Langston,” 
said Eichai’d, more perturbed than amazed at the dis- 
closure. 

“ Even so. Yet I am not certain whether he knows 
or only guesses ; but at any rate be on your guard 
for her sake. He has proved himself so unspeakable 
a villain that none can guess what he will do next. 
He — he it is above all — yea, above even Gifford and 
Ballard, who has brought us to this pass.” 

He was becoming fiercely agitated, but putting a 
force upon himself said, “ Have patience, good Mr 
Talbot, of your kindness, and I will tell you all, that 
you may understand the ceilings of the serpent who 
led me hither, and if possible save her from them.” 

Antony then explained that so soon as he had 
become his own master he had followed the inclina- 
tions which led him to the church of his mother and 


XXXIII.] IN THE TOWER. 42’/ 

of Queen Mary, the two beings he had always regarded 
with the most fervent affection and love. His mother's 
kindred had brought him in contact with the Eoman 
Catholic priests who circulated in England, at the 
utmost peril of their lives, to keep up the faith of the 
gentry, and in many cases to intrigue for Queen Mary. 
Among these plotters he fell in with Cuthbert Lang- 
ston, a Jesuit of the third order, though not a priest, 
and one of the most active agents in corresponding 
with Queen Mary. His small stature, colourless com- 
plexion, and insignificant features, rendered him almost 
a blank block, capable of assuming any variety of 
disguise. He also knew several languages, could 
imitate different dialects, and counterfeit male and 
female voices so that very few could detect him. He 
had soon made himself known to Babington as the 
Imckster Tibbott of days gone by, and had then dis- 
closed to him that Cicely was certainly not the 
daughter of her supposed parents, telling of her rescue 
from the wreck, and hinting that her rank was exalted, 
and that he knew secrets respecting her wliich he was 
about to make known to the Queen of Scots, With 
this purpose among others, Langston had adopted the 
disguise of the woman selling spars with the password 
“ Beads and Bracelets,” and being well known as an 
agent of correspondence to the suite of the captive 
Queen, he had been able to direct Goriou’s attention 
to the maiden, and to let him know that she was the 
same with the infant who had been put on board the 
Bride of Duribar at Dumbarton. 

How much more did Langston guess ? He had 
told Babington the story current among the outer circle 
of Mary’s followers of the maiden being the daughter 
of the Scotch archer, and had taught him her true 


428 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

name, encouraging too, his aspirations towards her dur- 
ing the time of his courtship. Babington believed 
Langston to have been at that time still a sincere 
partizan of Queen Mary, but all along to have enter- 
tained a suspicion that there was a closer relationship 
between Bride Hepburn and the Queen than was 
avowed, though to Babington himself he had only given 
mysterious hints. 

But towards the end of the captivity at Tutbury, he 
had made some further discovery, which confirmed his 
suspicions, and had led to another attempt to accost 
Cicely, and to make the Queen aware of his knowledge, 
perhaps in order to verify it, or it might be to gain power 
over her, a reward for the introduction, or to extort 
bribes to secrecy. For looking back, Antony could now 
perceive that by this time a certain greed of lucre had 
set in upon the man, who had obtained large sums of 
secret service money from himself ; and avarice, together 
with the rebuff he had received from the Queen, had 
doubtless rendered him accessible to the temptations of 
the arch-plotters Gifford and Morgan. Eichard could 
believe this, for the knowledge had been forced on him 
that there were an incredible number of intriguers at 
that time, spies and conspirators, often in the pay of 
both parties, impartially betraying the one to the other, 
and sometimes, through miscalculation, meeting the fate 
tliey richly deserved. Many a man who had begun 
enthusiastically to work in underground ways for what 
he thought the righteous cause, became so enamoured 
of the undermining process and the gold there to be 
picked up, that from a wrong-headed partizan he be- 
came a traitor — often a double-faced one — and would 
work secretly in the interest of whichever cause would 
pay him best. 


XXXIII.] IN THB TOWER. 429 

Poor Babington had been far too. youthfully simple 
to guess what he now perceived, that he had been 
made the mere tool and instrument of these traitors. 
He had been instructed in Gifford’s arrangement with 
the Burton brewer for conveying letters to Mary at 
Chartley, and had been made the means of informing 
her of it by means of his interview with Cicely, when 
he had brought the letter in the watch. The letter 
had been conveyed to him by Langston, the watch 
had been his own device. It was after this meet- 
ing, of which Eichard now heard for the first time, 
that Langston had fully told his belief respecting 
the true birth of Bride Hepburn, and assured Bab- 
ington that there was no hope of his wedding her, 
though the Queen might allow him to delude himself 
with the idea of her favour in order to bind liim to 
her service. 

It was then that Babington consented to Lady 
Shrewsbury’s new match with the weU-endowed Eleanor 
Eatcliffe. If he could not have Cicely, he cared not 
whom he had. He had been leading a wild and ex- 
travagant life about town, when (as poor Tichborne 
afterwards said on the scaffold) the flourishing estate 
of Babington and Tichborne was the talk of Fleet 
Street and the Strand, and he had also many calls 
for secret service money, so that all his thought was 
to have more to spend in the service of Queen IMary 
and her daughter. 

“ Oh, sir ! I have been as one distraught aU this 
past year,” he said. “ How often since I have been 
shut up here, and I have seen how I have been duped 
and gulled, have your words come back to me, that to 
enter on crooked ways was the way to destruction for 
myself and others, and that I might only be serving 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


430 


[chap. 


wors(3 men than myself ! And yet they were priests 
who misled me !” 

“ Even in your own religion there are many priests 
who would withhold you from such crimes,” said 
Richard. 

“ There are ! I know it ! I have spoken with them. 
They say no priest can put aside the eternal laws of God’s 
justice. So these others, Chidiock here, Donne and 
Salisbury, always cried out against tlie slaying of the 
Queen, though — wretch that I was — and gulled by 
Ballard and Savage, I deemed the exploit so noble and 
praiseworthy that I even joined Tichborne with me 
in that accursed portraiture ! Yea, you may well deem 
me mad, but it was Gifford who encouraged me in 
having it made, no doubt to assure our ruin. Oh, Mr. 
Talbot ! was ever man so cruelly deceived as me ?” 

“ It is only too true, Antony. My heart is full of 
rage and indignation when I think thereof. And yet, 
my poor lad, what concerns thee most is to lay aside all 
such thoughts as may not tend to repentance before 
God.” 

“ I know it, I know it, sir. All the more that we 
shall die without the last sacraments. Commend us 
to the prayers of our Queen, sir, and of her. But to 
proceed with what imports you to know for her sake, 
while I have space to speak.” 

He proceeded to tell how, between dissipation and 
intrigue, he had lived in a perpetual state of excitement, 
going backwards and forwards between London and 
Lichfield to attend to the correspondence with Queen 
IMary and the Spanish ambassador in France, and to 
aiTange the details of the plot ; always being worked 
up to the highest pitch by Gifford and Ballard, while 
Langston continued to be the great assistant in all the 


XXXIII,] 


IN THE TOWEE. 


431 


correspondence. All the time Sir Francis Walsingham, 
who was really aware of all, if not the prime mover in 
the intrigue, appeared perfectly unsuspicious ; often 
received Bahington at his house, and discussed a plan of 
sending him on a commission to France, while in point 
of fact every letter that travelled in the Burton barrels 
was deciphered by Phillipps, and laid before the Secre- 
tary before being read by the propfer owners. In none 
of these, however, as Bahington could assure Mr. Talbot, 
had Cicely been mentioned, — the only danger to her 
was through Langston. 

Things had come to a climax in July, when Bab- 
ington had been urged to obtain from Mary such 
definite approbation of his plans as might satisfy liis 
confederates, and had in consequence written the 
letter and obtained the answer, copies of which had 
been read to him at his private examination, and 
which certainly contained fatal matter to both him 
and the Queen. 

They had no doubt been called forth with that 
intent, and a doubt had begun to arise in the victim’s 
mind whether the last reply had been really the Queen’s 
own. It had been delivered to him in the street, not 
by the usual channel, but by a blue-coated serving- 
man. Two or three days later Humfrey had told him 
of Langston’s ix.terview with Walsingham, which he 
had at the time laughed to scorn, thinking himself able 
to penetrate any disguise of that Proteus, and likewise 
believing that he was blinding Walsingham. 

He first took alarm a few days after Humfrey’s de* 
parture, and wrote to Queen Mary to warn her, convinced 
that the traitor must be Langston. Ballard became 
himself suspected, and after lurking about in various 
disguises was arrested in Babington’s own lodgings. To 


432 UNKNOWN TO HlSTOEY. [cnAP 

disarm suspicion, Antony went to Walsingham to talk 
about the French Mission, and tried to resume his usual 
habits, but in a tavern, he became aware that Langston, 
under some fresh shape, was watching him, and liastily 
throwing down the reckoning, he fled without his cloak 
or sword to Gage’s house at Westminster, where he took 
hon5e, hid himself in St. John’s Wood, and finally was 
taken, half starved,* in an outhouse at Harrow, belong- 
ing to a farmer, whose mercy involved him in the like 
doom. 

This was the substance of the story told by the 
unfortunate young man to Eichard Talbot, whom he 
owned as the best and wisest friend he had ever had — 
going back to the warnings twice given, that no cause is 
served by departing from the right ; no kingdom safely 
won by worshipping the devil : “ And sure I did wor- 
ship liim when I let myself be led by Gifford,” he said. 

His cliief anxiety was not for his wife and her child, 
who he said would be well taken care of by the Eat- 
cliffe family, and who, alas ! had never won his heart. 
In fact he was relieved that he was not permitted to 
see the young thing, even had she wished it ; it could 
do no good to either of them, though he had written a 
letter, which she was to deliver, for the Queen, com- 
mending her to her Majesty’s mercy. 

His love had been for Cicely, and even that had 
never been, as Eichard saw, such purifying, restraining, 
self-sacrificing affection as was Humfrey’s. It was 
half romance, half a sort of offshoot from his one great 
and absorbing passion of devotion to the Queen of 
Scots, which was still as strong as ever. He entrusted 
Eichard with his humblest commendations to her, and 
strove to rest in the belief that as many a conspirator 
before — such as Norfolk, Throckmorton, Parry — had 


XXXIII.] IN THE TOWER. • 433 

perished on her behalf while she remained untouched, 
that so it might again be, since surely, if she were to 
be tried, he would have been kept alive as a witness. 
The peculiar custom of the time in State prosecutions 
of iianging the witnesses before the trial had not 
Ofxjurred to him. 

But how would it be with Cicely ? “ Is what this 

felbw guessed the very truth ?” he asked. 

Bichard made a sign of affirmation, saying, “ Is it 
only a guess on his part ?” 

Babington believed the man stopped short of abso- 
lute certainty, though he had declared himself to have 
reason to believe that a child must have been born 
Jo the captive queen at Lochleven ; and if so, where 
else could she be ? Was he waiting for clear proof to 
make the secret known to the Council ? Did he intend 
to make profit of it and obtain in the poor girl a sub- 
ject for further intrigue ? Was he withheld by con- 
sideration for Kichard Talbot, for whom Babington 
declared that if such a villain could be believed in any 
respect, he had much family regard and deep gratitude, 
since Eichard had stood his friend when all his family 
had cast him off in much resentment at his change of 
purpose and opinion. 

At any rate he had in his power Cicely’s welfare 
ani liberty, if not the lives of her adopted parents, 
since in the present juncture of affairs, and of universal 
suspicion, the concealment of the existence of one who 
stood so near the throne might easily be represented as 
high treason. Where was he ? 

No one knew. For appearance sake, Gifford had 
fieri beyond seas, happily only to fall into a prison of 
the Duke of Guise : and they must hope that Langston 
might have followed the same course. Meantime, 
2 F 


434 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[CLLiP. 


Ricliard could but go on as before, Cicely being now 
in her own mother’s hands. The avowal of hei 
identity must remain for the present as might be de- 
termined by her who had the right to decide. 

" I would I could feel hope for any I leave behind 
me,” said poor Antony. “ I trow you will not bear the 
maiden my message, for you wiU deem it a sin that I 
have loved her, and only her, to the last, though I have 
been false to that love as to all else beside. Tell 
Humfrey how I long that I had been like hnn, though 
he too must love on without hope.” 

He sent warm greetings to good Mistress Susan 
Talbot and craved her prayers. He had one other 
care, namely to commend to Mr, Talbot an old body 
3ervant, Harry Gillingham by name, who had attended 
on him in his boyhood at Sheffield, and had been with 
him all his life, being admitted even now, under super- 
vision from the warders, to wait on him when dressing 
and at his meals. The poor man was broken-hearted, 
and so near desperation that his master wished much 
to get him out of London before the execution. So, 
as Mr. Talbot meant to sail for Hull by the next day’s 
tide in the Mastiff, he promised to take the poor fellow 
with him back to Bridgefield. 

All this had taken much time. Antony did not 
seem disposed to go farther into his own feelings in 
the brief space that remained, but he took up a paper 
from the table, and indicating Tichborne, who still 
affected sleep, he asked wdiether it was fit that a man, 
who could write thus, should die for a ])lot against 
which he had always protested. Richard read these 
touching lines ; — 


IN THE TOWER. 


435 


JCXXIII.] 

My prime of youth is but a frost of care, 

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, 

My crop of corn is but a field of tares, 

And all my goods is but vain hope of gain. 

The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done. 

My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung ; 

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green j 

My youth is past, and yet I am but young ; 

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. 

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done. 

I sought for death, and found it in the wombe ; 

I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade ; 

I trode the ground, and knew it was my tombe, 

And now I dye, and now I am but made. 

The glass is full, and yet my glass is run ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done. 

Little used to poetry, these lines made the good 
man’s eyes fill with tears as he looked at the two 
goodly young men about to be cut off so early — one 
indeed guilty, but the victim of an iniquitous act of 
deliberate treachery. 

He asked if Mr. Tichborne wished to entrust to 
him aught that could be done by word of mouth, and 
a few commissions were given to him. Then Antony 
bethought him of thanks to Lord and Lady Shrews- 
bury for all they had done for him, and above all for 
sending Mr. Talbot ; and a message to ask pardon for 
having so belied the loyal education they had given 
him. The divided religion of the country had been 
his bane : his mother’s charge secretly to follow her 
faith had been the beginning, and then had followed 
the charms of stratagem on behalf of Queen Mary. 

Perhaps, after all, his death, as a repentant man still 


436 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

single minded, saved him from lapsing into the double 
vileness of the veteran intriguers whose prey he had 
been. 

“ I commend me to the Mercy Master Who sees my 
heart,” he said. 

Herewith the warder returned, and at his request 
summoned Gillingham, a sturdy grizzled fellow, looking 
grim with grief. Babington told him of the arrange- 
ment made, and that he was to leave London early in 
the morning with Mr. Talbot, but the man immediately 
dropped on his knees and swore a solemn oath that 
nothing should induce him to leave the place while his 
master breathed. 

“ Thou foolish knave,” said Antony, “ thou canst do 
me no good, and wilt but make thyself a more piteous 
wretch than thou art already. Why, ’tis for love of 
thee that I would have thee spared the sight.” 

“Am I a babe to be spared ?” growled the man. 

And all that he could be induced to promise was 
that he would repair to Bridgefield as soon as aU was 
over — “ Unless,” said he, “ I meet one of those accursed 
rogues, and then a halter would be sweet, if I had first 
had my will of them.” 

“ Hush, Harry, or Master Warder wUl be locking 
thee up next,” said Antony. 

And then came the farewell. It was at last a Ion" 

o 

speechless, sorrowful embrace ; and then Antony, slip- 
ping from it to his knees, said — “ Bless me ! Oh bless 
me : thou who hast been mine only true friend. Bless 
me as a father !” 

“ May God in Heaven bless thee !” said Eichard, 
solemnly laying his hand on his head. “ May He, Who 
knoweth how thou hast been led astray, pardon thee ! 
-May He, WTio hath felt the agonies and shame of the 


IN TIIK TOWEIl. 


437 


XX XI II.] 

Cross, red>;em thee, and suffer thee not for any pains of 
death to fall from Him !” 

He was glad to hear afterwards, when broken- 
hearted Gillingham joined him, that the last words 
iieard from Antony Babington’s lips were — “Farce 
mthi, Domine Jesu !” 


438 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOBY, 


[CHAI', 


CHAPTEE XXXIV. 

FOTHERINGHAY. 

“Is this my last journey ?” said Queen Mary, with a 
strange, sad smile, as she took her seat in the heavy 
lumbering coach which had been appointed for her 
conveyance from Chartley, her rheumatism having set 
in too severely to permit her to ride. 

“ Say not so ; your Grace has weathered many a 
storm before,” said Marie de Courcelles. “This one 
will also pass over.” 

“ Ah, my good Marie, never before have I felt this 
foreboding and sinking of the heart. I have always 
hoped before, but I have exhausted the casket of Pan- 
dora. Even hope is flown !” 

Jean Kennedy tried to say something of “ Darkest 
before dawn.” 

“ The dawn, it may be, of the eternal day,” said the 
Quet*Q. “ Kay, my friends, the most welcome tidings 
that could greet me would be that my weary bondage 
was over for ever, and that I should wreck no more 
gallant hearts. What, mignonne, art thou weeping ? 
There will be freedom again for thee when that day 
comes.” 

“ 0 madam, I want not freedom at such a 
price!” And yet Cicely had never recovered her 


XXXIV.] FOTHERINGHAY. 439 

looks since those seventeen days at Tickhill. She still 
looked white and thin, and her dark eyebrows lay in a 
heavy line, seldom lifted by the merry looks and smiles 
that used to flash over her face. Life had begun to 
press its weight upon her, and day after day, as Hum- 
frey watched her across the chapel, and exchanged a 
word or two with her while crossing the yard, had he 
grieved at her altered mien ; and vexed himself with 
wondering whether she had after all loved Babington, 
and were mourning for him. 

Truly, even without the passion of love, there had 
been much to shock and appal a young heart in the 
fate of the playfellow of her childhood, the suitor of 
her youth. It was the first death among those she had 
known intimately, and even her small knowledge of the 
cause made her feel miserable and almost guilty, for 
had not poor Antony plotted for her mother, and had 
not she been held out to him as a delusive inducement ? 
Moreover, she felt the burden of a deep, pitying love 
and admiration not wholly joined with perfect trust 
and reliance. She had been from the first startled by 
untruths and concealments. There was mystery all 
round her, and the future was dark. There were terrible 
forebodings for her mother ; and if she looked beyond 
for herself, only uncertainty and fear of being com- 
manded to follow Marie de Courcelles to a foreign 
court, perhaps to a convent ; while she yearned with 
an almost sick longing for home and kind Mrs. Talbot’s 
motherly tenderness and trustworthiness, and the very 
renunciation of Humfrey that she had spoken so easily, 
had made her aware of his full worth, and wakened 
in her a longing for the right to rest on his stout arm 
and faithful heart. To look across at him and know 
liim near often seemed her best support, and was she 


4:40 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

to be cut off from him for ever ? The devotions of the 
Queen, though she had been deprived of her almoner, 
had been much increased of late as one preparing for 
death ; and with them were associated all her house- 
hold of the Eoman Catholic faith, leaving out Cicely 
and the two Mrs. Curlls. The long oft-repeated Latin 
orisons, such as the penitential Psalms, w-ould certainly 
have been wearisome to the girl, but it gave her a pang 
to be pointedly excluded as one who had no part nor 
lot with her mother. Perhaps this was done by calcu- 
lation, in order to incline her to embrace her mother’s 
faith ; and the time was not spent very pleasantly, as 
she had nothing but needlework to occupy her, and 
no society save that of the sisters Curll. Barbara’s 
spirits were greatly depressed by the loss of her infant 
and anxiety for her husband. His evidence might be 
life or death to the Queen, and his betrayal of her confi- 
dence, or his being tortured for his fidelity, were terrible 
alternatives for his wife’s imagination. It was hard to 
say whether she were more sorry or glad when, on leav- 
ing Chartley, she was forbidden to continue her attend- 
ance on the Queen, and set free to follow him to London. 
The poor lady knew nothing, and dreaded everything. 
She «ould not help discussing her anxieties when alone 
with Cicely, thus rendering perceptible more and more 
of the ramifications of plot and intrigue — past and 
present — at which she herself only guessed a part. 
Assuredly the finding herself a princess, and sharing the 
captivity of a queen, had not proved so like a chaptei 
of the Morte d' Arthur as it had seemed to Cicely at 
Buxton. 

It was as unlike as was riding a white palfrey 
through a forest, guided by knights in armour, to the 
being packed with all the ladies into a heavy jolting 


FOTHERINGHAY. 


441 


XXXIV.'J 

conveyance, guarded before and behind by armed ser- 
vants and yeomen, among whom Humfrey’s form could 
only now and then be detected. 

The Queen had chosen her seat where she could 
best look out from the scant amount of window. 
She gazed at the harvest-fields full of sheaves, the or- ’ 
chards laden with ruddy apples, the trees assuming their 
autumn tints, with lingering eyes, as of one who fore- 
boded that these sights of eartli were passing from her. 

Two nights were spent on the road, one at Leicester ; 
and on the fourth day, the captain in charge of the 
castle for the governor Sir William Fitzwilliam, who 
had come to escort and receive her, came to the carriage 
window and bade her look up. “ This is Periho Lane,” 
he said, “ whence your Grace may have the first sight 
of the poor house which is to have the honour of re- 
ceiving you.” 

‘‘ Perio ! I perish,” repeated Mary ; “ an ominous 
road.” 

The place showed itself to be of immense strength. 
The hollow sound caused by rolling over a draw- 
bridge was twice heard, and the carriage crossed two 
courts before stopping at the foot of a broad flight of 
stone steps, where stood Sir William Fitzwilliam and 
Sir Amias Paulett ready to hand out the Queen. 

A few stone steps were mounted, then an enormous 
hall had to be traversed. The little procession had 
formed in pairs, and Humfrey was able to give his 
hand to Cicely and walk wnth her along tlie vast space, 
on which many windows emblazoned with coats of arms 
slied their light — the western ones full of the bright 
September sunshine. One of these, emblazoned with the 
royal shield in crimson mantlings, cast a blood-red stain 
on the white stone pavement. Mary, who was walk” 


442 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

first, holding by the arm of Sir Andrew Melville, 
paused, shuddered, pointed, and said, “ See, Andrew, 
there wiU my blood be shed.” 

“ Madam, madam ! speak not thus. By the help 
of the saints you will yet win through your troubles.” 

‘‘Ay, Andrew, but only by one fate;” and she 
looked upwards. 

Her faithful followers could not but notice that 
there was no eager assurance that no ill was intended 
her, such as they had often heard from Shrewsbury and 
Sadler. 

Cicely looked at Humfrey with widely-opened eyes, 
and the half-breathed question, “ "Wliat does it mean ?” 

He shook his head gravely and said, “ I cannot 
tell,” but he could not keep his manner from betraying 
that he expected the worst. 

Meanwhile Mary was conducted on to her apart- 
ments, up a stair as usual, and forming another side 
of the inner court at right angles to the Hall. There 
was no reason to complain of these, Mary’s furniture 
having as usual been sent forward with her inferior 
servants, and arranged by them. She was weary, and 
sat down at once on her chair, and as soon as Paulett 
had gone through his usual formalities with even more 
than his wonted stiffness, and had left her, she said, 
“ I see what we are come here for. It is that yonder 
hall may be the place of my death.” 

Cheering assurances and deprecations of evil augury 
were poured on her, but she put them aside, saying, 
“ Nay, my friends, trow you not that I rejoice in the 
close of my weary captivity ? ” 

She resumed her usual habits very calmly, as far 
as her increased rheumatism would permit, and showed 
anxiety that a large piece of embroidery should be 


FOTHEEINGHAY. 


443 


XXXIV.] 

completed, and thus about a fortnight passed. Then 
came the first token of the future. Sir Amias Paulett, 
Sir Walter Mildmay, and a notary, sought her presence 
imd presented her with a letter from Queen Elizabeth, 
informing her that there were heavy accusations 
against her, and that as she was residing under the 
protection of the laws of England, she must be tried 
by those laws, and must make answer to the commis- 
sioners appointed for the purpose. Mary put on all 
her queenly dignity, and declared that she would never 
condescend to answer as a subject of the Queen of 
England, but would only consent to refer their differ- 
ences to a tribunal of foreign princes. As to her 
being under the protection of English law, she had 
come to England of her own free will, and had been 
kept there a prisoner ever since, so that she did not 
consider herself protected by the law of England. 

Meanwhile fresh noblemen commissioned to sit on 
the trial arrived day by day. There was trampling of 
horses and jingling of equipments, and the captive 
suite daily heard reports of fresh arrivals, and saw 
glimpses of new colours and badges flitting across the 
court, while conferences were held with Mary in the 
hope of inducing her to submit to the English juris- 
diction. She was sorely perplexed, seeing as she did 
that to persist in her absolute refusal to be bound by 
English law would be prejudicial to her claim to the 
English crown, and being also assured by Burghley 
that if she refused to plead the trial would still take 
place, and she would be sentenced in her absence. 
Her spirit rose at this threat, and she answered 
disdainfully, but it worked with her none the less 
when the treasurer had left her. 

“ Oh,” she cried that night, “ would but Elizabeth 


444 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

be content to let me resign my rights to my son, 
making them secure to him, and then let me retire to 
some convent in Lorraine, or in Germany, or wherever 
she would, so would I never trouble her more !” 

“Will you not write this to her?” asked Cicely. 

“ Wnat would be the use of it, child ? They would 
tamper with the letter, pledging me to what I never 
would undertake. I know how they can cut and 
garble, add and take away ! Never have they let me 
see or speak to her as woman to woman. All I have 
said or done has been coloured.” 

“ Mother, I would that I could go to her ; Humfrey 
has seen and spoken to her, why should not I ? ” 

“ Thou, poor silly maid ! They would drive Cis 
Talbot away with scorn, and as to Bride Hepburn, 
why, she would but run into all her mother’s dangers.” 

“ It might be done, and if so I will do it,” said 
Cicely, clasping her hands together. 

“ No, child, say no more. My worn-out old life is 
not worth the risk of thy young freedom. But I love 
thee for it, mine ain bairnie, mon enfant a moi. If 
thy brother had thy spirit, child ” 

“ I hate the thought nf him ! Call him not my 
brother !” cried Cicely hotly. “ If he were worth one 
brass farthing he would have unfurled the Scottish 
lion long ago, and ridden across the Border to deliver 
his mother.” 

“ And how many do you think would have followed 
that same lion?” said Mary, sadly. 

“ Then he should have come alone with his good 
horse and his good sword !” 

“ To lose both crowns, if not life ! No, no, lassie ; he 
is a pawky chiel, as they say in the north, and cares 
not to risk aught for the mother he hath never seen, 


XXXIV.] FOTHEEINGHAY. 445 

and of whom he hath been taught to believe strange 
tales.” 

The more the Queen said in excuse for the in- 
difference of her son, the stronger was the purpose 
that grew up in the heart of the daughter, while 
fresh commissioners arrived every day, and further 
conversations were held with the Queen. Lord 
Shrewsbury was known to be summoned, and Cicely 
spent half her time in watching for some well-known 
face, in the hope that he might bring her good foster- 
father in his train. More than once she declared that 
she saw a cap or sleeve with the well-beloved silver dog, 
when it turned out to be a wyvern or the royal lion him- 
self. Queen Mary even laughed at her for thinking her 
mastiff had gone on his hind legs when she once even 
imagined him in the Warwick Bear and ragged staff 

At last, however, all unexpectedly, while the Queen 
was in conference with Hatton, there came a message 
by the steward of the household, that Master Eichard 
Talbot had arrived, and that permission had been 
granted by Sir Amias for him to speak with Mistress 
Cicely. She sprang up joyously, but Mrs. Kennedy 
demurred. 

“ Set him up !” quoth she. “ My certie, things are 
come to a pretty pass that any one’s permission save 
her Majesty’s should be speired for one of her women, 
and I wonder that you, my mistress, should be the 
last to t hin k of her honour !” 

“ O Mrs. Kennedy, dear Mrs. Jean,” entreated 
Cicely, “ hinder me not. If I wait till I can ask her, 
I may lose my sole hope of speaking with him. I 
know she would not be disjdeased, and it imports, 
indeed it imports.” 

“ Come, Mrs. Kennett,” said the steward, who by 


446 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

no means shared his master’s sourness, “ if it were a 
young gallant that craved to see thy fair mistress, I 
could see why you should doubt, but being her father 
and brother, there can surely be no objection.” 

“ The young lady knows what I mean,” said the 
old gentlewoman with great dignity, “ but if she will 
answer it to the Queen ” 

“ I will, I will,” cried Cicely, whose colour had 
risen with eagerness, and she was immediately mar- 
shalled by the steward beyond the door that closed in 
the royal captive’s suite of apartments to a gallery. 
At the door of communication three yeomen were 
always placed under an officer. Humfrey was one of 
those who took turns to command this guard, but he 
was not now on duty. He was, however, standing 
beside his father awaiting Cicely’s coming. 

Eagerly she moved up to Master Eichard, bent her 
knee for his blessing, and raised her face for his 
paternal kiss with the same fond gladness as if she 
had been his daughter in truth. He took one hand, 
and Humfrey the other, and they followed the steward, 
who had promised to procure them a private interview, 
so difficult a matter, ia the fulness of the castle, that 
he had no place to offer them save the deep embrasure 
of a great oriel window at the end of the gallery. 
They would be seen there, but there was no fear of 
their being heard without their own consent, and till 
the chapel bell rang for evening prayers and sermon 
there would be no interruption. And as Cicely found 
herself seated between Master Eichard and the win- 
dow, with Humfrey opposite, she was sensible of a 
repose and Men Ure she had not felt since she quitted 
Bridgefield. She had already heard on the way that 
all was well there, and that my Lord was not come. 


XXXIV.] FOTHEKINGHAY. 447 

though named in the commission as being Earl Marshal 
of England, sending his kinsman of Bridgefield in his 
stead with letters of excuse. 

“ In sooth he cannot bear to come and sit in judg- 
ment on one he hath known so long and closely,” said 
Richard ; “ but he hath bidden me to come hither and 
remain so as to bring him a full report of all.” 

“ How doth my Lady Countess take that ?” asked 
Humfrey. 

“ I question whether the Countess would let him 
go if he wished it. She is altogether changed in 
mind, and come round to her first love for this Lady, 
declaring that it is all her Lord’s fault that the custody 
was taken from them, and that she could and would 
have hindered all this.” 

“ That may be so,” said Humfrey. “ If all be true 
that is whispered, there have been dealings which would 
not have been possible at Sheffield.” 

“ So it may be. In any wise my Lady is bitterly 
grieved, and they send for thy mother every second day 
to pacify her.” 

“Dear mother!” murmured Cis; “when shall I see 
her again ? ” 

“ I would that she had thee for a little space, my 
wench,” said Richard ; “ thou hast lost thy round ruddy 
cheeks. Hast been sick ?” 

“ Nay, sir, save as we all are — sick at heart 1 But 
all seems well now you are here. Tell me of little 
Ned. Is he as good scholar as ever ?” 

“Verily he is. We intend by God’s blessing to 
bring him up for the ministry. I hope in another 
year to take him to Cambridge. Thy mother is knit- 
ting his hosen of gray and black already.” 

Other questions and answers followed about Bridge- 


448 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CILVP. 

field tidings, which still evidently touched Cicely as 
closely as if she had been a born Talbot. There was a 
kind of rest in dwelling on these before coming to the 
sadder, more pressing concern of her other life. It was 
not till the slow striking of the Castle clock warned 
them that they had less than an hour to spend together 
that they came to closer matters, and Eichard transferred 
to Cicely those last sad messages to her Queen, which 
he had undertaken for Babington and Tichborne. 

“ The Queen hath shed many tears for them,” she 
said, “ and hath writ to the French and Spanish am- 
bassadors to have masses said for them. Poor Antony ! 
Did he send no word to me, dear father ?” 

The man being dead, Mr. Talbot saw no objection 
to teUing her how he had said he had never loved any 
other, though he had been false to that love. 

“Ah, poor Antony !” said Cis, with her grave sim- 
plicity. “ But it would not have been right for me to 
be a hindrance to the marriage of one who could never 
have me.” 

“While he loved you it would,” said Humfrey 
hastily. “ Yea,” as she lifted up her eyes to him, “ it 
would so, as my father will tell you, because he could 
not truly love that other woman.” 

Eichard smiled sadly, and could not but assent to 
his son’s honest truth and faith. 

“Then,” said Cis, with the same straightforward- 
ness, sprung of their old fraternal intercourse, “you 
must quit all love for me save a brother’s, Humfrey ; 
for my Queen mother made me give her my word on 
my duty never to wed you.” 

“ I know,” returned Humfrey calmly. “ I have 
known all that these two years ; but what has that to 
do with my love ?” 


XXXIV.] 


FOTHERINGHAY. 


449 


" Come, come, children,” said Richard, hardening 
himself though his eyes were moist ; “ I did not come 
here to hear you two discourse like the folks in a 
pastoral ! We may not waste time. Tell me, child, if 
thou be not forbidden, hath she any purpose for thee ?” 

“ 0 sir, I fear that what she would most desire is 
to bestow me abroad with some of her kindred of 
Lorraine. But I mean to strive hard against it, and 
pray her earnestly. And, father, I have one great 
purpose. She saith that these cruel statesmen, who 
are all below in this castle, have hindered Queen 
Elizabeth from ever truly hearing and knowing all, and 
from speaking with her as woman to woman. Father, 
I will go to London, I will make my way to the Queen, 
and when she hears who I am — of her own blood and 
kindred — she must listen to me ; and I will tell her 
what my mother Queen really is, and how cruelly she 
has been played upon, and entreat of her to see her 
face to face and talk with her, and judge whether she 
can have done aU she is accused of.” 

“ Thou art a brave maiden, Cis,” exclaimed Humfrey 
with deep feeling. 

“ WlQ you take me, sir ?” said Cicely, looking up to 
Master Richard. 

“ Child, I cannot say at once. It is a perilous 
purpose, and requires much to be thought over.” 

“ But you will aid me ? ” she said earnestly. 

“ If it be thy duty, woe be to me if I gainsay thee,” 
said Richard ; “ but there is no need to decide as yet. 
We must await the issue of this trial, if the trial ever 
take place.” 

“ Will Cavendish saith,” put in Humfrey, “ that a 
trial there will be of some sort, whether the Lady con- 
sent to plead or not.” 


450 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

“Until that is ended we can do nothing,” said his 
father. “Meantime, Cicely child, we shall be here at 
hand, and he sure that I will not he slack to aid tliee 
in what may be thy duty as a daughter. So rest thee 
in that, my wench, and pray that we may be led to 
know the right.” 

And Eichard spoke as a man of high moral courage 
in making this promise, well knowing that it might 
involve himself in great danger. The worst that could 
befall Cicely might be imprisonment, and a life of con- 
straint, jealously watched ; but his own long conceal- 
ment of her birth might easily be construed into 
treason, and the horrible consequences of such an accu- 
sation were only too fresh in his memory. Yet, as he 
said afterwards to his son, “ There was no forbidding 
the maiden to do her utmost for her own mother, 
neither was there any letting her run the risk alone.” 

To which Humfrey heartily responded. 

“ The Queen may forbid her, or the purpose may 
pass away,” added Eichard, “ or it may be clearly use- 
less and impossible to make the attempt ; but I cannot 
as a Christian man strive to dissuade her from doing 
w'hat she can. And as thou saidst, Humfrey, she is 
changed. She hath borne her modestly and discreetly, 
ay and truly, through all. The childishness is gone 
out of her, and I mark no lightness of purpose in her.” 

On that afternoon Queen Mary announced that she 
had yielded to Hatton’s representations so far as to 
consent to appear before the Commissioners, provided 
her protest against the proceedings were put on record. 

“Hay, blame me not, good Melville,” she said. “ I 
am wearied out with their arguments. What matters 
it how they do the deed on which they are bent ? It 
was an ill thing when King Hairy the Eighth brought 


FOTHEKINGHAY. 


451 


XXXIV.] 

in this fashion of forcing the law to give a colour to 
his will ! In the good old times, the blow came with- 
out being first baited by one and another, and made a 
spectacle to all men, in the name of justice, forsooth ! ” 

Mary Seaton faltered something of her Majesty’s 
innocence shining out like the light of day. 

" Flatter not thyself so far, ma mul' said Mary. 
“ "Were mine innocence clearer than the sun they would 
blacken it. All that can come of this same trial is 
that I may speak to posterity, if they stifle my voice 
here, and so be known to have died a martyr to my 
faith. Get we to our prayers, girls, rather than feed 
on vain hopes De profundis clamaviy 


452 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOBY. 


[chap 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

BEFORE THE COMMISSIONERS. 

Who would be permitted to witness the trial? As 
small matters at hand eclipse great matters farther off, 
this formed the immediate excitement in Queen Mary’s 
little household, when it was disclosed that she was to 
appear only attended by Sir Andrew Melville and her 
two Maries before her judges. 

The vast hall had space enough on the ground for 
numerous spectators, and a small gallery intended for 
musicians was granted, with some reluctance, to the 
ladies and gentlemen of the suite, who, as Sir Amias 
Paulett observed, could do no hurt, if secluded there. 
Thither then they proceeded, and to Cicely’s no small 
delight, found Humfrey awaiting them there, partly as 
a guard, partly as a master of the ceremonies, ready to 
explain the arrangements, and tell the names of the 
personages who appeared in sight. 

“ There,” said he, “ close below us, where you can- 
not see it, is the chair with a cloth of state over it.” 

“For our Queen?” asked Jean Kennedy. 

“ No, madam. It is there to represent the Majesty 
of Queen Elizabeth. That other chair, half-way down 
the hall, with the canopy from the beam over it, is for 
the Queen of Scots.” 


XXXV.J BEFORE THE COMMISSIONERS. 453 

Jean Kennedy sniffed the air a little at this, hut 
her attention was directed to the gentlemen who began 
to fill the seats on either side. Some of them had be- 
fore had interviews with Queen Mary, and thus were 
known by sight to her own attendants ; some had been 
seen by Humfrey during his visit to London ; and even 
now at a great distance, and a different table, he had 
been taking his meals with them at the present juncture. 

The seats were long benches against the wall, for 
the Earls on one side, the Barons on the other. The 
Lord Chancellor Bromley, in his red and white gown, 
and Burghley, the Lord Treasurer, with long white 
beard and hard impenetrable face, sat with them. 

“ That a man should have such a beard, and yet 
dare to speak to the Queen as he did two days ago,” 
whispered Cis. 

“ See,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “ who is that burly 
figure with the black eyes and grizzled beard ?” 

“That, madam,” said Humfrey, “is the Earl of 
Warwick.” 

“The brother of the minion Leicester?”- said Jean 
Kennedy. “ He hath scant show of his comeliness.” 

“ Nay ; they say he is become the best favoured,” 
said Humfrey; “my Lord of Leicester being grown 
heavy and red-faced. He is away in the Nether- 
lands, or you might judge of him.” 

“ And who,” asked the lady, “ may be yon, with the 
strangely-plumed hat and long, yellow hair, like a half- 
tamed Borderer?” 

“He?” said Humfrey. “He is my Lord of Cum- 
berland. I marvelled to see him back so soon. He is 
here, there, and everywhere ; and when I was in Lon- 
don was commanding a fleet bearing victuals to relieve 
tlie Dutch in Helvoetsluys. Had I not other work in 


454 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

hand, I vYonld gladly sail with him, thongli there be 
something fantastic in his humour. But liere come the 
Knights of the Privy Council, who are to my mind 
more noteworthy than the Earls.” 

The seats of these knights were placed a little below 
and beyond those of the noblemen. The courteous Sir 
Ealf Sadler looked up and saluted the ladies in the 
gallery as he entered. “ He was always kindly,” said 
Jean Kennedy, as she returned the bow. “ I am glad 
to see him here.” 

“ But oh, Humfrey !” cried Cicely, “ who is yonder, 
with the short cloak standing on end with pearls, and 
the quilted satin waistcoat, jewelled ears, and frizzed 
head ? He looks fitter to lead off a dance than a 
trial.” 

“ He is Sir Christopher Hatton, her Majesty’s Vice- 
Chamberlain,” replied Humfrey. 

“ Who, if rumour saith true, made his fortune by a 
galliard,” said Dr. Bourgoin. 

“ Here is a contrast to him,” said Jean Kennedy. 
“See tliat figure, as puritanical as Sir Amias himself, with 
the long face, scant beard, black skull-cap, and plain 
crhnped ruff. His visage is pulled into so solemn a 
length that were we at home in Edinburgh, I should 
expect to see him ascend a pulpit, and deliver a screed 
to us all on the iniquities of dancing and playing on 
the lute !” 

“ Tiiat, madam,” said Humfrey, “ is Mr. Secretary, 
Sir Francis Walsingham.” 

Here Elizabeth Curll leant forward, looked, and 
shivered a little. “ Ah, Master Humfrey, is it in that 
man’s power that my poor brother lies ?” 

“ ’Tis true, madam,” said Humfrey ,“ but indeed you 
need not fear. I heard from Will Cavendish last night 


XXXV.] BEFORE Tin: COMMISSIONERS. 4d5 

that Mr. Curll is well. They have not touched either 
of the Secretaries to hurt them, and if aught have been 
avowed, it was hy Monsieur Nau, and that on the 
mer(} threat. Do you see old Will yonder. Cicely, just 
witliin Mr. Secretary’s call — with the poke of papers 
and the tablet ?” 

“ Is that Will Cavendish ? How precise and stiff 
he hath grown, and why doth he not look up and greet 
us ? He knowetli us far better than doth Sir Ealf 
Sadler; doth he not know we are here ?” 

“ Ay, Mistress Cicely,” said Dr. Bourgoin from be- 
hind, “but the young gentleman has his fortune to 
make, and knows better than to look on the seamy 
side of Court favour.” 

“ Ah ! see those scarlet robes,” here exclaimed Cis. 
“ Are they the judges, Humfrey ?” 

“ Ay, the two Chief- Justices and the Chief Baron of 
the Exchequer. There tliey sit in front of the Earls, 
and three more judges in front of the Barons.” 

“And there are more red robes at that little table 
in front, besides the black ones.” 

“ Those are Doctors of Law, and those in black with 
coifs are the Attorney and SoEcitor General. The rest 
are clerks and writers and the like.” 

“ It is a mighty and fearful array,” said Cicely with 
a long breath. 

“ A mighty comedy wherewith to mock at justice,” 
said Jean. 

“ Prudence, madam, and caution,” suggested Dr. 
Bourgoin. “And hush!” 

“A crier here shouted aloud, “Oyez, oyez, oyez ! 
Mary, Queen of Scotland .and Dowager of France, come 
into the Court I” 

Then from a door in the centre, leaning on Sir 


456 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAP. 

Andrew Melville’s arm, came forward the Queen, in a 
black velvet dress, her long transparent veil hanging 
over it from her cap, and followed by the two Maries, one 
carrying a crimson velvet folding-chair, and the other 
a footstool. She turned at first towards the throne, but 
she was motioned aside, and made to perceive that her 
place was not thera She drew her slender figure up 
with offended dignity. “ I am a queen,” she said ; “ I 
married a king of France, and my seat ought to be 
there.” 

However, with this protest she passed on to her 
appointed place, looking sadly round at the assembled 
judges and lawyers. 

“ Alas !” she said, “ so many counsellors, and not 
one for me.” 

Were there any Englishmen there besides Eichard 
Talbot and his son who felt the pathos of this appeal ? 
One defenceless woman against an array of the legal 
force of the whole kingdom. It may be feared that 
the feelings of most were as if they had at last secured 
some wild, noxious, and incomprehensible animal in 
their net, on whose struggles they looked with the un- 
pitying eye of the hunter. 

The Lord Chancellor began by declaring that the 
Queen of England convened the Court as a duty in one 
who might not bear the sword in vain, to examine into 
the practices against her own life, giving the Queen of 
Scots the opportunity of clearing herself. 

At the desire of Burgliley, the commission was read 
by the Clerk of the Court, and Mary then made her 
public protest against its legality, or power over her. 

It was a wonderful thing, as those spectators in the 
gallery felt, to see how brave and how acute was the 
defence of that solitary lady, seated there with all those 


XXXV.] BEFORE THE COMMISSIONI’JIS. 457 

learned men against her ; her papers gone, nothing left 
to her but her brain and her tongue. No loss of dig- 
nity nor of gentleness was shown in her replies ; they 
w^ere always simple and direct. The difficulty for her 
wai: all the greater that she had not been allowed to 
know the form of the accusation, before it w^as hurled 
against her in full force by Mr. Serjeant Gawdy, who 
detailed the whole of the conspiracy of Ballard and 
Babington in all its branches, and declared her to have 
known and approved of it, and to have suggested the 
manner of executing it. 

Breathlessly did Cicely listen as the Queen rose up. 
Humfrey w^atched her almost more closely than the 
royal prisoner. When there was a denial of all know- 
ledge or intercourse with Ballard or Babington, Jean 
Kennedy’s hard-lined face never faltered ; but Cicely’s 
brows came together in concern at the mention of 
the last name, and did not clear as the Queen exr 
plained that though many Catholics might indeed write 
to her with offers of service, she could have no know- 
ledge of anything they might attempt. To confute 
this, extracts from their confessions were read, and 
likewise that letter of Babington’s wdiich he had 
written to her detailing his plans, and that lengthy 
answer, brought by the blue-coated serving-man, in 
which the mode of carrying her off from Chartley was 
suggested, and which had the postscript desiring to 
know the names of the six who were to remove the 
usurping competitor. 

The Queen denied this letter flatly, declaring that 
it might have been written with her alphabet of 
ciphers, but was certainly none of hers. “ There may 
have been designs against the Queen and for procuring 
my liberty,” she said, “ but I, shut up in close prison, 


458 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP, 

was not aware of them, and how can I be made to 
answer for them ? Only lately did I receive a letter 
asking my pardon if schemes were made on my behalf 
without my privity, nor can anything be easier than 
to counterfeit a cipher, as was lately proved by a 
young man in France. Verily, I greatly fear that if 
these same letters were traced to their deviser, it 
would prove to be the one who is sitting here. Think 
you,” she added, turning to Walsingham, “ think you, 
klr. Secretary, that I am ignorant of your devices used 
so craftily against me ? Your spies surrounded me on 
every side, hut you know not, perhaps, that some of 
your spies have been false and brought intelligence to 
me. And if such have been his dealings, my Lords,” 
she said, appealing to the judges and peers, “ how can 
I be assured that he hath not counterfeited my ciphers 
to bring me to my death ? Hath he not already 
practised against my life and that of my son ?” 

Walsingham rose in his place, and lifting up his 
hands and eyes declared, “ I call God to record that 
as a private person I have done nothing unbeseeming 
an honest man, nor as a public person have I done 
anything to dishonour my place.” 

Somewhat ironically Mary admitted this disavowal, 
and after some unimportant discussion, the Court 
adjourned until the next day, it being already late, 
according to the early habits of the time. 

Cicely had been entirely carried along by her 
mother’s pleading. Tears had started as Queen Mary 
wept her indignant tears, and a glow had risen in her 
cheeks at the accusation of Walsingham. Ever and 
anon she looked to Humfrey’s face for sympathy, but 
he sat gravely listening, his two hands clasped over 
the hilt of his sword, and his chin resting on them, as 


XXXV.] BEFORE THE COMMISSIONERS. 459 

if to prevent a muscle of his face from moving. When 
they rose up to leave the galleries, and there was the 
power to say a word, she turned to him earnestly. 

“A piteous sight,” he said, “and a right gallant 
defence.” 

He did not mean it, but the words struck like lead 
on Cicely’s heart, for they did not amount to an 
acquittal before the tribunal of his secret conviction, 
any more than did Walsingham’s disavowal, for who 
could tell what Mr. Secretary’s conscience did think 
unbecoming to his office ? 

Cicely found her mother on her couch giving a free 
course to her tears, in the reaction after the strain and 
effort of her defence. Melville and the Maries were 
assuring her that she had most bravely confuted her 
enemies, and that she had only to hold on with equal 
courage to the end. Mrs. Kennedy and Dr. Bourgoin 
came in to join in the same encouragements, and the 
commendation evidently soothed her. “ However it 
may end,” she said, “ Mary of Scotland shall not go 
down to future ages as a craven spirit. But let us 
not discuss it further, my dear friends, my head aches, 
and I can bear no further word at present.” 

Dr. Bourgoin made her take some food and then 
lie down to rest, while in an outer room a lute was 
played and a low soft song was sung. She had not 
slept all the previous night, but she fell asleep, hold- 
ing the hand of Cicely, who was on a cushion by her 
side. The girl, having been likewise much disturbed, 
slept too, and only gi'adually awoke as her mother was 
sitting up on her couch discussing the next day’s 
defence with MelvOle and Bourgoin. 

“ I fear me, madam, there is no holding to the pro- 
fession of entire ignorance,” said Melville. 


460 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[chap. 

“They have no letters from Babington to me to 
show,” said the Queen. “ I took care of that by the 
help of this good bairn. I can defy them to produce 
the originals out of aU my ransacked cabinets.” 

“ They have the copies both of them and of your 
Majesty’s replies, and Nau and Curll to verify them.” 

“What are copies worth, or what are dead and 
tortured men’s confessions worth ?” said Mary. 

“ Were your Majesty a private person they would 
never be accepted as evidence,” said Melville; “but ” 

“ But because I am a Queen and a Catholic there 
is no justice for me,” said Mary. “Well, what is the 
defence you would have me confine myself to, my sole 
privy counsellors ?” 

Here Cis, to show she was awake, pressed her 
mother’s hand and looked up in her face, but Mary, 
though returning the glance and the pressure, did not 
send her away, while Melville recommended strongly 
that the Queen should continue to insist on the im- 
perfection of the evidence adduced against her, which 
he said might so touch some of the lawyers, or the 
nobles, that Burghley and Walsingham might be afraid 
to proceed. If this failed her, she must allow her 
knowledge of the plot for her own escape and the 
Spanish invasion, but strenuously deny the part which 
concerned Elizabeth’s life. 

“ That it is which they above all desire to fix on 
me,’* said the Queen. 

Cicely’s brain was in confusion. Surely she had 
heard those letters read in the hall. Were they false 
or genuine? The Queen had utterly denied them 
there. Now she seemed to think the only point was 
to prove that these were not the originals. Dr. Bour- 
goin seemed to feel the same difficulty. 


XXXV.] BEFOKE THE COMMISSIONERS. 461 

“Madame will pardon me,” he said; “I have not 
been of her secret conncils, but can she not, if rightly 
dealt with, prove those two letters that were read to 
have been forged by her enemies ?” 

“ What I could do is this, my good Bourgoin,” 
said Mary ; “ were I only confronted with Nau and 
Curll, I could prove that the letter I received from 
Babington bore nothing about the destroying the 
usurping competitor. The poor faithful lad was a 
fool, but not so great a fool as to tell me such things. 
And, on the other hand, hath either of you, my friends, 
ever seen in me such symptoms of midsummer mad- 
ness as that I should be asking the names of the six 
who were to do the deed ? What cared I for their 
names ? I — who only wished to know as little of the 
matter as possible !” 

“ Can your Majesty prove that you knew nothing ?” 
asked MelviUe. 

Mary paused. “ They cannot prove by fair means 
that I knew anything,” said she, “ for I did not. Of 
course I was aware that Elizabeth must be taken out 
of the way, or the heretics would be rallying round 
her ; but there is no lack of folk who delight in work 
of that sort, and why should I meddle with the know- 
ledge ? With the Prince of Parma in London, she, if 
she hath the high courage she boasteth of, would soon 
cause the Spanish pikes to use small ceremony with 
her ! Why should I concern myself about poor Antony 
and his five gentlemen ? But it is the same as it was 
twenty years ago. What I know will have to be, and 
yet choose not to hear of, is made the head and front 
of mine offending, that the real actors may go free ! 
And because I have writ naught that they can bring 
against me, they take my letters and add to and garble 


462 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAP. 

them, till none knows where to have them. Would 
that we were in France ! There it was a good sword-cut 
or pistol-shot at once,, and one took one’s chance of a 
return, without aU this hypocrisy of law and justice to 
weary one out and make men double traitors.” 

“ Methought Walsiugham winced when your ]\Ia- 
jesty went to the point with him,” said Bourgoin. 

“ And you put up with his explanation ? ” said 
Melville. 

“ Truly I longed to demand of what practices Mr. 
Secretary in his office , — not as a private person — 
would be ashamed ; but it seemed to me that they 
might call it womanish spite, and to that the Queen of 
Scots will never descend !” 

“ Pity but that we had Babington’s letter ! Then 
might we put him to confusion by proving the addi- 
tions,” said Melville. 

“ It is not possible, my good friend. The letter is 
at the bottom of the Castle well ; is it not, mignonne ? 
Mourn for it not, Andrew. It would have been of 
little avail, and it carried with it stuff that Mr. Secre- 
tary would give almost his precious place to possess, 
and that might be fatal to more of us. I hoped that 
there might have been safety for poor Babington in 
the destruction of that packet, never guessing at the 
villainy of yon Burton brewer, nor of those who set 
him on. Come, it serves not to fret ourselves any 
more. I must answer as occasion serves me ; speaking 
not so much to Elizabeth’s Commission, who have fore- 
doomed me, as to all Christendom, and to the Scots 
and English of all ages, who will be my judges.” 

Her judges ? Ay ! but how ? With the same 
enthusiastic pity and indignation, mixed with the same 
misgiving as her own daughter felt. N(jt wholly inno- 


XXXV.] BEFORE THE COMMISSIONERS. 463 

cent, not wholly guilty, yet far less guilty than those 
who had laid their own crimes on her in Scotland, or 
who plotted to involve her in meshes partly woven by 
herself in England. The evil done to her was frightful, 
but it would have been powerless had she been wholly 
blameless. Alas ! is it not so with all of us ? 

The second day’s trial came on. Mary Seaton was 
so overpowered with the strain she had gone through 
that the Queen would not take her into the hall, but 
let Cicely sit at her feet instead. On this day none of 
the Crown lawyers took part in the proceedings ; for, 
as Cavendish whispered to Humfrey, there had been 
high words between them and my Lord Treasurer and 
Mr. Secretary; and they had declared themselves in- 
capable of conducting a prosecution so inconsistent 
with the forms of law to which they were accustomed. 
The pedantic fellows wanted more direct evidence, he 
said, and Humfrey honoured them. 

Lord Burgliley then conducted the proceedings, and 
they had thus a more personal character. The Queen, 
however, acted on Melville’s advice, and no longer 
denied all knowledge of the conspiracy, but insisted 
that she was ignorant of the proposed murder of Eliza- 
beth, and argued most pertinently that a copy of a 
deciphered cipher, without the original, was no proof 
at all, desiring further that Nau and Curll should be 
examined in her presence. She reminded the Com- 
missioners how their Queen herself had been called in 
question for Wyatt’s rebellion, in spite of her inno- 
cence. “ Heaven is my witness,” she added, “ that 
much as I desire the safety and glory of the Catholic 
religion, I would not purchase it at the price of blood. 
I would rather play Esther than Judith.” 

Her defence was completed by her taking off the 


464 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP, 

ring which Elizabeth had sent to her at Lochleven 
" This,” she said, holding it up, “ your Queen sent to 
me in token of amity and protection. You best know 
how that pledge has been redeemed.” Therewith she 
claimed another day’s hearing, with an advocate granted 
to her, or else that, being a Princess, she might be 
believed on the word of a Princess. 

This completed her defence, except so far that when 
Burghley responded in a speech of great length, she 
interrupted, and battled point by point, always keeping 
in view the strong point of the insufficient evidence 
and her own deprivation of the chances of confuting 
what was adduced against her. 

It was late in the afternoon when he concluded. 
There was a pause, as though for a verdict by the 
Commissioners. Instead of this, Mary rose and re- 
peated her appeal to be tried before the Parliament of 
England at Westminster. No reply was made, and 
the Court broke up. 


XXXVLj 


A Y£2jTU£S. 


466 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

A VENTURE. 

“ Mother, dear mother, do but listen to me.** 

“ I must listen, child, when thou callest me so from 
your heart ; but it is of no use, my poor little one. 
They have referred the matter to the Star Chamber, 
that they may settle it there with closed doors and no 
forms of law. Thou couldst do nothing ! And could 
I trust thee to go wandering to London, like a maiden 
in a ballad, all alone ?” 

“ Nay, madam, I should not go alone. My father, 
I mean Mr. Talbot, would take me.” 

“ Come, bairnie, that is presuming overmuch on the 
good man’s kindness.” 

" I do not speak without warrant, madam. I told 
him what I longed to do, and he said it might be my 
duty, and if it were so, he would not gainsay me ; but 
that he could not let me go alone, and would go with 
me. And he can get access for me to the Queen. He 
has seen her himself, and so has Humfrey ; and Diccon 
is a gentleman pensioner.” 

“ There have been ventures enough for me already,” 
said Mary. “ I will bring no more faithful heads into 
peril.” 

“ Then will you not consent, mother ? He will 
2 H 


466 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CIIAT. 

(i[uit the castle to-morrow, and I am to see him in the 
morning and give him an answer. If you would let 
me go, he would crave license to take me home, saying 
tliat I look paler than my wont.” 

“ And so thou dost, child. If I could be sure of 
ever seeing thee again, I should have proposed tliy 
going home to good Mistress Susan’s tendance for a 
little space. But it is not to be thought of. I could 
not risk thee, or any honest loving heart, on so des- 
perate a stake as mine ! I love thee, mine ain, true, 
leal lassie, all the more, and I honour him ; hut it may 
not be ! Ask me no more.” 

Mary was here interrupted by a request from Sir 
Christopher Hatton for one of the many harassing 
interviews that beset her during the days following the 
trial, when judgment was withheld, according to the 
express command of the vacillating Elizabeth, and the 
case remitted to the Star Chamber. Lord Burghley 
considered this hesitation to be the effect of judicial 
blindness — so utterly had hatred and fear of the future 
shut his eyes to all sense of justice and fair play. 

Cicely felt all youth’s disappointment in the rejec- 
tion of its grand schemes. But to her surprise at night 
Mary addressed her again, “ My daughter, did that true- 
hearted foster-father of thine speak in sooth ? ” 

“ He never doth otherwise,” returned Cicely. 

“ For,” said her mother, “ I have thought of a way 
of gaining thee access to the Queen, far less perilous to 
him, and less likely to fail. I will give thee letters to 
M. De Chateauneuf, the French Ambassador, whom I 
have known in old times, with full credentials. It 
might be well to have with thee those that I left with 
Mistress Talbot. Then he wiU gain thee admittance, 
and work for thee as one sent from Franco, and protected 


A VENTURE. 


467 


XXXVI.] 

by the rights of the Embassy. Thus, Master Eichard 
need never appear in the matter at all, and at any 
rate thou wouldst be secure. Chateauneuf would find 
means of sending thee abroad if needful.” 

“ Oh ! I woidd return to you, madam my mother, 
or wait for you in London.” 

“ That must he as the wills above decree,” said Mary 
sadly. “ It is folly in me, but I cannot help grasping at 
the one hope held out to me. There is that within me 
that will hope and strive to the end, though I am using 
my one precious jewel to weight the line I am casting 
across the gulf. At least they cannot do thee great 
harm, my good child.” 

The Queen sat up half the night writing letters, one 
to Elizabeth, one fo Chateauneuf, and another to the 
Duchess of Lorraine, which Cis was to deliver in case 
of her being sent over to the Continent. But the Queen 
committed the conduct of the whole affair to M. De 
Chateauneuf, since she could completely trust his discre- 
tion and regard for her ; and, moreover, it was possible 
that the face of affairs might undergo some great altera- 
tion before Cicely could reach London. Mr. Talbot must 
necessarily go home first, being bound to do so by his 
commission to the Earl. “ And, hark thee,” said the 
Queen, “what becomes of the young gallant ?” 

“ I have not heard, madam,” said Cicely, not liking 
the tone. 

“ If my desires still have any effect,” said Mary, 
“he wiU stay here. I will not have my damosel 
errant squired by a youth under five-and-twenty.” 

“ I promised you, madam, and he wots it,” said 
Cicely, with spirit. 

“ He wots it, doth he ? ” said the Queen, in rather a 
provoking voice. “ No, no, mignonne; with all respect 


468 UNKNOWN TO HISIOEY. [CHAP 

to their honour and discretion, we do not. put flint and 
steel together, when we do not wish to kindle a fire 
Nay, little one, I meant not to vex thee, when thou 
art doing one of the noblest deeds daughter ever did 
for mother, and for a mother who sent thee away from 
her, and whom thou hast scarce known for more than 
two years !” 

Cicely was sure to see her foster-father after morn- 
ing prayers on the way from the chapel across the 
inner court. Here she was able to tell him of the 
Queen’s consent, over which he looked grave, having 
secretly persuaded himself that Mary would think the 
venture too great, and not hopeful enough to be made. 
He could not, however, wonder that the unfortunate 
lady sliould catch at the least hope of preserving her 
life ; and she had dragged too many down in the whirl- 
pool to leave room for wonder that she should consent 
to peril her own daughter therein. Moreover, he 
would have the present pleasure of taking her home 
with him to his Susan, and who could say what would 
happen in the meantime ? 

“ Thou hast counted the cost ?” he said. 

“ Yea, sir,” Cis answered, as the young always do ; 
adding, “ the Queen saith that if we commit all to the 
French Ambassador, M. De Chateauneuf, who is her 
very good friend, he will save you from any peril.” 

“ Hm ! I had rather be beholden to no French- 
man,” muttered Eichard, “ but we will see, we will see. 
I must now to Paulett to obtain consent to take thee 
with me. Thou art pale and changed enough indeed 
to need a blast of Hallamshire air, my poor maid.” 

So Master Eichard betook him to the knight, a man 
of many charges, and made known that finding his 
daughter somewhat puling and sickly, he wished, 


XXXVI.] A VENTUKE. 469 

having, as she told him, the consent of the Queen of 
Scots, to take her home with him for a time. 

“ You do well, Mr. Talbot,” said Sir Amias. " In 
sooth, I have only marvelled that a pious and godly majj 
like you should have consented to let her abide so long, 
at lier tender age, among these papistical, idolatrous, 
and bloodthirsty women.” 

“ I think not that she hath taken harm,” said 
Eichard. 

" I have done my poor best ; I have removed the 
priest of Baal,” said the knight ; “ I have caused godly 
ministers constantly to preach sound doctrine in the 
ears of all who would hearken ; and I have uplifted 
my testimony whensoever it was possible. But it is 
not well to expose the young to touching the accursed 
thing, and this lady hath shown herself greatly affected 
to your daughter, so that she might easily be seduced 
from the truth. Yet, sir, bethink you is it well to re- 
move the maiden from witnessing that which will be a 
warning for ever of the judgment that falleth on con- 
spiracy and idolatry ?” 

“ You deem the matter so certain ?” said Eichard. 

“ Beyond a doubt, sir. This lady will never leave 
these walls alive. There can be no peace for England 
nor safety for our blessed and gracious Queen while she 
lives. Her guilt is certain ; and as Mr. Secretary said 
to me last night, he and the Lord Treasurer are deter- 
mined that for no legal quibbles, nor scruples of mercy 
from our ever -pitiful Queen, shall she now escape. 
Her Majesty, however her womanish heart may doubt 
now, will rejoice when the deed is done. Methinks I 
showed you the letter she did me the honour to write, 
tlianking me for the part I took in conveying the lady 
suddenly to Tixall.” 


470 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

Eichard had already read that letter three times, so 
he avowed his knowledge of it. 

“You will not remove your son likewise?” added 
Sir Amias. “ He hath an acquaintance with this lady’s 
people, which is useful in one so thoroughly to be 
trusted ; and moreover, he will not be tampered vdth. 
For, sir, I am never without dread of some attempt 
being made to deal with this lady privily, in which 
case I should be the one to bear all the blame. Where- 
fore I have made request to have another honourable 
gentleman joined with me in tliis painful wardship.” 

Eichard had no desire to remove his son. He 
shared Queen Mary’s feelings on the inexpediency of 
Humfrey forming part of the escort of the young lady, 
and thought it was better for both to see as little of 
one another as possible. 

Sir Amias accordingly, on his morning visit of in- 
spection, intimated to the Queen that Mr. Talbot wished 
his daughter to return home with liim for the recovery 
of her health. He spoke as if the whole suite were at 
his own disposal, and Mary resented it in her dignified 
manner. 

“ The young lady hath already requested license 
from us,” she said, “ and we have granted it. She will 
return when her health is fully restored.” 

Sir Amias had forbearance enough not to hint that 
unless tlie return were speedy, she would scarcely find 
the Queen there, and the matter was settled. Master 
Eichard would not depart until after dinner, when other 
gentlemen were going, and this would enable Cicely to 
make up her mails, and there would still be time to 
ride a stage before dark. Her own horse was in the 
stables, and her goods would be bestowed in cloak bags 
on the saddles of the grooms who had accompanied Mr. 


A VENTURE. 


471 


XXXVJ.] 

Talbot ; for, small as was the estate of Bridgefield, for 
safety’s sake he could not have gone on so long an 
expedition without a sufficient guard. 

The intervening time was spent by the Queen in 
instructing her daughter how to act in’ various con- 
tingencies. If it were possible to the Trench Ambas- 
sadoi to present her as freshly come from the Soissons 
convent, where she was to have been reared, it would 
save Mr. Talbot from aU risk ; but the Queen doubted 
whether she could support the character, so English 
was her air, though there were Scottish and English 
nuns at Soissons, and stiU more at Louvaine and 
Douay, who might have brought lier up. 

“ I cannot feign, madam,” said Cicely, alarmed. “Oh, 
I hope I need only speak truth !” and her tone sounded 
much more like a confession of incapacity than a 
moral objection, and so it was received : “ Poor child, 
I know thou canst not act a part, and thy return to 
the honest mastiffs wdll not further thee in it ; but I 
have bidden Chateauneuf to do what he can for thee — 
and after all the eyes will not be very critical.” 

If there still was time. Cicely was to endeavour 
first of all to obtain of Elizabeth that Mary might be 
brought to London to see her, and be judged before 
Parliament with full means of defence. If this were 
no longer possible. Cicely might attempt to expose 
Walsingham’s contrivance ; but this would probably 
be too dangerous. Chateauneuf must judge. Or, as 
another alternative. Queen Mary gave Cicely the ring 
already shown at the trial, and with that as her pledge, 
a solemn offer was to be made on her behalf to retire 
into a convent in Austria, or in one of tlie Pioman 
Catholic cantons of Switzerland, out of the reach of 
Spain and Trance, and there take the veil, resigning all 


472 UNKNOWN TO IIISTOKY. [CHAP. 

her rights to her son. All her money had been taken 
away, but she told Cicely she had given orders to 
Chateaimeuf to supply from her French dowiy all 
that might be needed for the expenses that must be 
incurred. 

Now that the matter was becoming so real, Cicely’s 
heart quailed a little. Castles in the air that look 
heroic at the first glance would not so remain did not 
they show themselves terrible at a nearer approach, 
and the maiden wondered whether Queen Elizabeth 
would be much more formidable than my Lady 
Countess in a rage ! 

And what would become of herself ? Would she 
be detained in the bondage in which the poor sisters of 
the Grey blood had been kept ? Or would her mother 
carry her off to these strange lands ? ... It was all 
strange, and the very boldness of her offer, since it had 
been thus accepted, made her feel helpless and passive 
in the grasp of the powers that her simple wish had 
set movir.g. 

The letters were sewn up in the most ingenious 
manner in her dress by Mary Seaton, in case any 
search should be made; but the only woman Sir 
Amias would be able to employ in such a matter 
was purblind and helpless, and they trusted much to 
his implicit faith in the Talbots. 

There was only just time to complete her prepara- 
tions before she was summoned ; and with an almost 
convulsive embrace from her mother, and whispered 
benedictions from Jean Kennedy, she left the dreary 
walls of Fotheringhay. 

Ilumfrey rode with them through the Chase. Both 
he and Cicely were very silent. Wlien the time came 
for parting. Cicely said, as she laid her hand in hia. 


xxxvl] a venture. 473 

“ Dear brother, for my sake do all thou canst for her 
with honour.” 

“ That will I,” said Humfrey. “ Would that I were 
going with thee, Cicely !” 

“ So would not I,” she returned ; “ for then there 
would be one true heart the less to watch over her.” 

“ Come, daughter !” said Eichard, who had engaged 
one of the gentlemen in conversation so as to leave 
them to themselves. “We must be jogging. Fare 
thee well, my son, till such time as thy duties permit 
thee to follow ua.” 


474 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTEE XXXm 

MY lady’s remorse. 

“ And have you brought her back again ! 0 my lass ! 

my lass !” cried Mistress Susan, surprised and dehghted 
out of her usual staid composure, as, going out to greet 
her husband, an unexpected figure was seen by his 
side, and Cicely sprang into her arms as if they were 
truly a haven of rest. 

Susan looked over her head, even in the midst of 
the embrace, with the eyes of one hungering for her 
first-born son, but her husband shook his head. “ Xo, 
mother, we have not brought thee the boy. Thou 
must content thyself with her thou hast here for a 
little space.” 

“ I hope it bodes not ill,” said Susan. 

“ It bodes,” said Eichard, “ that I have brought 
thee back a good daughter with a pair of pale cheeks, 
which must be speedily coloured anew in our northern 
breezes.” 

“ Ah, how sweet to be here at home,” cried Cicely, 
turning round in rapturous greeting to all the serving 
men and women, and all the dogs. " We want only 
the boys ! Where is Ned ?” 

Their arrival having been unannounced, Ned was 
with Master Sniggius, whose foremost scholar he now 


XXXVII.] MY lady’s eemokse. 475 

was, and who kept him much later than the other lada 
to prepare him for Cambridge ; hut it was the return to 
this tender foster-mother that seemed such extreme 
bliss to Cicely. All was most unlike her reluctant 
return two years previously, when nothing hut her 
inbred courtesy and natural sweetness of disposition 
had prevented her from being contemptuous of the 
country home. Now every stone, every leaf, seemed 
precious to her, and she showed herself, even as she 
ascended the steps to the hall, determined not to be 
the guest but the daughter. There was a little move- 
ment on the parents’ part, as if they bore in mind that 
she came as a princess; but she flew to draw up 
Master Eichard’s chair, and put his wife’s beside it, nor 
would she sit, till they had prayed her to do. so ; and 
it was all done with such a graceful bearing, the noble 
cairiage of her head had become so much more remark- 
able, and a sweet readiness and responsiveness of manner 
had so grown upon her, that Susan looked at her in 
wondering admiration, as something more her own and 
yet less her own than ever, tracing in her for the first 
time some of the charms of the Queen of Scots. 

All the household hovered about in delight, and 
confidences could not be exchanged just then : the 
travellers had to eat and drink, and they were only just 
beginning to do so when Ned came home. He was of 
slighter make than his brothers, and had a more 
scholarly aspec t : but his voice made itself heard before 
him. Is it t rue ? Is it true that my father is come ? 
And our Cis too ? Ha !” and he rushed in, hardly 
giving himsell time for the respectful greeting to his 
father, before he fell upon Cis with imdoubting brotherly 
delight. 

“ Is Humfrey come ? ” he asked as soon as he could 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


476 


[chap. 


take breath. “ No ? I thought ’twas too g(Dd to be 
aU true.” 

“ How did you hear ?” 

“ Hob the hunter brought up word that the 
Queen’s head was ofif. What ? ” as Cicely gave a start 
and little scream. “ Is it not so ?” 

“No, indeed, boy,” said his father. “What put 
that folly into his head?” 

“ Because he saw, or thought he saw, Humfrey ana 
Cis riding home with you, sir, and so thought all was 
over with the Queen of Scots. My Lady, they say, 
had one of her shrieking fits, and my Lord sent down 
to ask whether I knew aught ; and when he found 
that I did not, would have me go home at once to bid 
you come up immediately to the Manor ; and before I 
had gotten out Dapple, there comes another message to 
say that, in as brief space as it will take to saddle them, 
there will be beasts here to bring up you and my 
mother and Cis, to teU my Lady Countess all that has 
befallen.” 

Cis’s countenance so changed that kind Susan said, 
“ I will make thine excuses to my Lady. Thou art 
weary and ill at ease, and I cannot have thee set forth 
at once again.” 

“ The Queen would never have sent such sudden 
and hasty orders,” said Cicely. “ Mother, can you not 
stay with me ? — I have so much to say to you, and my 
time is short.” 

The Talbots were, however, too much accustomed 
to obedience to the peremptory commands of their 
feudal chiefs to venture on such disobedience. Susan’s 
proposal had been a great piece of audacity, on which 
she would hardly have ventured but for her conscious- 
ness that the maiden was no Talbot at aU. 


xxxvil] my lady’s kemoese. 47 7 

Yet to Cis the dear company of her mother Susan, 
even in the Countess’s society, seemed too precious to 
be resigned, and she had likewise been told that Lady 
Shrewsbury’s mind had greatly changed towards Mary, 
and that since the irritation of the captive’s presence 
had h33n removed, she remembered only the happier and 
Idndlier portion of their past intercourse. There had 
been plenty of quarrels with her husband, hut none so 
desperate as before, and at this present time the Earl and 
Countess were united against the surviving sons, who, 
with Gilbert at their head, were making large demands 
on them. Cicely felt grateful to the Earl for his absence 
from Eotheringhay, and, though disappointed of her 
peaceful home evening, declared she would come up 
to the Lodge rather than lose sight of “ mother." The 
stable people, more considerate than their Lord and 
Lady, proved to have sent a horse litter for the con- 
veyance of the ladies called out on the wet dark 
October evening, and here it was that Cis could enjoy 
her first precious moment of privacy with one for 
whom she had so long yearned. Susan rejoiced in the 
heavy lumbering conveyance as a luxury, sparing the 
maiden’s fatigue, and she was commencing some in- 
quiries into the indisposition which had procured this 
holiday, when Cicely broke in, “ 0 mother, nothing 
aUeth me. It is not for that cause — but oh ! mother, 
I am to go to see Queen Elizabeth, and strive with her 
for her — for my mother’s life and freedom.” 

“ Thou ! poor little maid. Doth thy father — what 
am I saying ? Doth my husband know ?” 

“ Oh yes. He wiU take me. He saith it is my duty.” 

“ Then it must be well,” said Susan in an altered 
voice on hearing this. “From whom came the pro- 
posal ?” 


478 


UNKNOWN TO UISTOKY. 


[CHAP> 

“I made it,” said Cicely in a low, feeble voice, 
on the verge of tears. “ Oh, dear mother, thou wilt 
not tell 9ny one how faint of heart I am ? I did 
mean it in sooth, but I never guessed how dreadful it 
would grow now I am pledged to it,” 

“Thou art pledged, then, and canst not falter ?” 

“ Never,” said Cicely; “ I would not that any should 
know it, not even my father ; but mother, mother, I 
could not help telling you. You will let no one 
guess ? I know it is unworthy, but ” 

“ Not unworthy to fear, my poor child, so long as 
thou dost not waver.” 

“ It is, it is unworthy of my lineage. My mother 
queen would say so,” cried Cis, drawing herself up. 

“ Giving way would be unworthy,” said Susan, 
“but turn thou to thy God, my child, and He will 
give thee strength to carry through whatever is the 
duty of a faithful daughter towards this poor lady ; and 
my husband, thou sayest, holds that so it is ? ” 

“ Yea, madam ; he craved license to take me home, 
since I have truly often been ailing since those dread- 
ful days at Tixall, and he hath promised to go to 
London with me.” 

“ And is this to be done in thine own true name ?” 
asked Susan, trembling somewhat at the risk to her 
husband, as well as to the maiden. 

“ I trow that it is,” said Cis, “ but the matter is to 
be put into the hands of M, de Chateauneuf, the 
JYench Ambassador. I have a letter here,” laying her 
hand on her bosom, “ which, the Queen declares, will 
thoroughly prove to him who I am, and if I go as 
under his protection, none can do my fath(;r any 
harm.” 

Susan Loped so, but she trusted to understand aU 


XXXVII.] MY lady’s remorse. 479 

better from her husband, though her heart faded her 
as much as, or even perhaps more than, did that of 
poor little Cis. Master Eichard had sped on before 
their tardy conveyance, and had bad time to give the 
heads of his intelligence before they reached the Manor- 
house, and when they were conducted to my Lady’s 
chamber, they saw him, by the light of a large fire, 
standing before the Earl and Countess, cap in hand, 
much as a groom or gamekeeper would now stand 
before his master and mistress. 

The Earl, however, rose to receive the ladies ; but 
the Countess, no great observer of ceremony towards 
other people, whatever she might exact from them 
towards herself, cried out, “ Come hither, come hither. 
Cicely Talbot, and tell me how it fares with the poor 
lady,” and as the maiden came forward in the dim 
light — “ Ha ! What ! Is’t she ?” she cried, with a 
sudden start. On my faith, what has she done to 
thee ? Thou art as like her as the foal to the mare.” 

This exclamation disconcerted the visitors, but 
luckily for them the Earl laughed and declared that 
he could see no resemblance in Mistress Cicely’s dark 
brows to the arched ones of the Queen of Scots, to 
which his wife replied testily, “ Who said there was ? 
The maid need not be uplifted, for there’s nothing 
alike between them, only she hath caught the trick of 
her bearing so as to startle me in the dark, my head 
running on the poor lady. I could have sworn ’twas 
she coming in, as she was when she first came to our 
care fifteen years agone. Pray Heaven she may not 
haunt the place ! How fareth she in health, wench ? ” 

“ Well, madam, save when the rheumatic pains take 
her,” said Cicely. 

" And stni of good courage ?” 


480 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[chap. 


“ That, madam, nothing can daunt.” 

Seats, though only joint stools, were given to tlie 
ladies, hut Susan found herself no longer trembling at 
the effects of the Countess’s insolence upon Cicely, 
who seemed to accept it all as a matter of course, and 
almost of indifference, though replying readily and 
with a gentle grace, most unlike her childish petulance. 

Many close inquiries from the Earl and Countess 
were answered by Kichard and the young lady, until 
they had a tolerably clear idea of the situation. The 
Countess wept bitterly, and to Cicely’s great amazement 
began bemoaning herself that she was not still the 
poor lady’s keeper. It was a shame to put her where 
there were no women to feel for her. Lady Shrews- 
bury had apparently forgotten that no one had been so 
virulent against the Queen as herself. 

And when it was impossible to deny that things 
looked extremely ill, and that Burghley and Walsing- 
ham seemed resolved not to let slip this opportunity of 
ridding themselves of the prisoner, my Lady burst out 
with, “Ah ! there it is ! She will die, and my promise 
is broken, and she will haunt me to my dying day, all 
along of that venomous toad and spiteful viper, Mary 
Talbot.” 

A passionate fit of weeping succeeded, mingled 
with vituperations of her daughter Mary, far more than 
of herself, and amid it all, during Susan’s endeavours 
at soothing, Cicely gathered that the cause of the 
Countess’s despair was that in the time of her friend- 
ship and amity, she had uttered an assurance that the 
Queen need not fear death, as she would contrive 
means of safety. And on her own ground, in her own 
Castle or Lodge, there could be little doubt that she 
would have been able to have done so. The Earl 


XXXVII.] 


MY lady’s EEMORSE. 


481 


indeed, shook his head, hut repented, for she laughed 
at him half angrily, half hysterically, for thinking he 
could have prevented anything that she was set upon. 

And now she said and fully believed that the mis- 
understanding which had resulted in the removal of 
the prisoner had been entirely due to the slanders and 
deceits of her own daughter Mary, and her husband 
Gilbert, with whom she was at this time on the worst 
of terms. And thus she laid on them the blame of the 
Queen’s death (if that was really decreed), but though 
she outwardly blamed every creature save herself, such 
agony of mind, and even terror, proved that in very 
truth there must have been the conviction at the 
bottom of her heart that it was her own fault. 

The Earl had beckoned away ]\laster Eichard, both 
glad to escape; but Cicely had to remain, and filled with 
compassion for one whom she had always regarded pre- 
viously as an enemy, she could not help saying, “ Dear 
madam, take comfort ; I am going to bear a petition 
to the Queen’s Majesty from the captive lady, and if 
she wUl hear me all will yet be well.” 

“ How ! What ? How ! Thou little moppet ! 
Knows she what she says, Susan Talbot ?” 

Susan made answer that she had had time to hear 
no particulars yet, but that Cicely averred that she was 
going with her father’s consent, whereupon Eichard was 
immediately summoned back to explain. 

The Earl and Countess could hardly believe that he 
should have consented that his daughter should be thus 
employed, and he had to excuse himself with what he 
could not help feeling were only half truths. 

“ The poor lady,” he said, “ is denied all power of 
sending word or letter to the Queen save through those 
whom she views as her enemies, and therefore she longed 
2 I 


482 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CHAP. 


earnestly either to see her Majesty, or to hold communi- 
cation with her through one whom she knoweth to be 
both simple and her own friend.” 

“ Yea,” said the Countess, “ I could well have done 
this for her could I but have had speech with her. Oi 
she might have sent Bess Pierrepoint, who surely would 
have been a more fitting messenger.” 

“ Save that she hath not had access to the Queen of 
Scots of late,” said Eichard. 

“ Yea, and her father would scarcely be willing to 
risk the Queen’s displeasure,” said the Earl. 

“ Art thou ready to abide it. Master Eichard ?” said 
the Countess, “ thougli after all it could do you Ettle 
harm.” And her tone marked the infinite distance 
she placed between him and Sir Henry Pierrepoint, the 
husband of her daughter. 

“ That is true, madam,” said Eichard ; “ and more- 
over, I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to debar 
the poor lady from any possible opening of safety.” 

“ Thou art a good man, Eichard,” said the Earl, and 
therewith both he and the Countess became extremely, 
nay, almost inconveniently, desirous to forward the 
petitioner on her way. To listen to them that night, 
they would have had her go as an emissary of the 
house of Shrewsbury, and only the previous quarrel 
with Lord Talbot and his wife prevented them from 
proposing that she should be led to the foot of the 
tlirone by Gilbert himself. 

Cicely began to be somewhat alarmed at plans that 
would disconcert all the instructions she had received, 
and only her old habits of respect kept her silent when 
she thought Master Eichard not ready enough to refuse 
all these offers. 

At last he succeeded in obtaining license to depart, 


XXXVII.] 


MY lady’s KEMORSE. 


483 


and no sooner was Cicely again shut up with Mistress 
Susan in the litter than she exclaimed, “ Now will it 
be most hard to carry out the Queen’s orders that 1 
should go first to the French Ambassador. I would 
that my Lady Countess would not think naught can 
succeed without her meddling.” 

“ Thou shouldst have let father tell thy purpose in 
his own way,” said Susan. 

“ Ah! mother,! am an indiscreet simpleton, not fit for 
such a work as I have taken in hand,” said poor Cis. 
“ Here hath my foolish tongue traversed it already ! ” 

" Fear not,” said Susan, as one who well knew the 
nature of her kinswoman ; “ belike she will have cooled 
to-morrow, all the more because father said naught to 
the nayward.” 

Susan was uneasy enough herself, and very desirous 
to hear all from her husband in private. And that 
night he told her that he had very little hope of the 
intercession being availing. He believed that the 
Treasurer and Secretary were absolutely determined on 
Mary’s death, and would sooner or later force consent 
from the Queen; but there was the possibility that 
Elizabeth’s feelings might be so far stirred that on a 
sudden impulse she might set Mary at liberty, and 
place her beyond their reach. 

“ And hap what may,” he said, “ when a daughter 
offereth to do her utmost for a mother in peril of death, 
what right have I to hinder her ? ” 

“ May God guard the duteous !” said Susan. “ But 
oh I husband, is she worthy, for whom the child is thus 
to lead you into peril ? ” 

“ She is her mother,” repeated Eichard. “ Had I 
erred ” 

“ Which you never could do,” broke in the wife. 


184 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


" I am a sinful man,” said he. 

“Yea. but there are deeds you never could ha^'e 
done.” 

“ By God’s grace I trust not ; hut hear me out, wife. 
Mine errors, nay, my crimes, would not do away with 
the duty owed to me by my sous. How, then, should 
any sins of this poor Queen withhold her daughter from 
rendering her all the succour in her power ? And thou, 
thou thyself, Susan, hast taken her for thine owm too 
long to endure to let her undertake the matter alone 
and unaided.” 

“ She would not attempt it thus,” said Susan. 

“ I cannot tell ; but I should thus be guilty of foil 
ing her in a brave and filial purpose.” 

“ And yet thou dost hold her poor mother a guilty 
woman ?” 

“ Said I so ? Hay, Susan, I am as dubious as ever 
I was on that head.” 

“After hearing the trial?” 

“ A word in thine ear, my discreet wife. The trial 
convinced me far more that place makes honest men 
act like cruel knaves than of aught else.” 

“ Then thou boldest her innocent ?” 

“ I said not so. I have known too long how she 
lives by the weaving of webs. I know not how it is, 
but these great folks seem not to deem that truth in 
word and deed is a part of their religion. For my part, 
I should distrust whatever godliness did not lead to 
truth, but a plain man never knows where to have 
them. That she and poor Antony Babington were in 
league to bring hither the Spaniards and restore the 
Pope, I have no manner of doubt on the word of both, 
but then they deem it — Heaven help them — a virtuous 
act ; and it might be lawful in her, seeing that she has 


XXXVII.] my lady’s kemorse. 485 

always called herself a free sovereign unjustly detained. 
What he stuck at and she denies, is the furpose of 
murdering the Queen’s Majesty.” 

“ Sure that was the head and front of the poor 
young man’s offending.” 

“ So it was, but not until he had been urged thereto 
by his priests, and had obtained her consent in a letter. 
Heaven forgive me if I misjudge any one, but my belief 
is this — that the letters, whereof only the deciphered 
copies were shown, did not quit the hands of either the 
one or the other, such as we heard them at Fotheringhay. 
So poor Babington said, so saith the Queen of Scots, 
demanding vehemently to have them read in her pre- 
sence before Nau and Curll, who could testify to them. 
Cis deemeth that the true letter from Babington is in 
a packet which, on learning from Humfrey his sus- 
picion that there was treachery, the Queen gave her, 
and she threw down a well at Chartley.” 

“ That was pity.” 

“ Say not so, for had the original letter been seized, 
it would only have been treated in the same manner 
as the copy, and never allowed to reach Queen Eliza- 
beth.” 

“ I am glad poor Cicely’s mother can stand clear of 
that guilt,” said Susan. “ I served her too long, and 
received too much gentle treatment from her, to brook 
the thought that she could be so far left to herself.” 

“ Mind you, dame,” said Eichard, " I am not wholly 
convinced that she was not aware that her friends would 
in some way or other bring about the Queen’s death, 
and that she would scarce have visited it very harshly, 
but she is far too wise — ay, and too tender-hearted, to 
have entered into the matter beforehand. So I think 
her not wholly guiltless, though the wrongs she hath 


486 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[CHAF. 


suffered have been so great that I would do whatever 
was not disloyal to mine own Queen to aid her to 
obtain justice,” 

“ You are doing much, much indeed,” said Susan ; 
and all this time you have told me nothing of my sou, 
save what all might hear. How fares he ? is his heart 
still set on this poor maid ?” 

“ And ever will be,” said his father. “ His is not an 
outspoken babbling love like poor Master Nau, who 
they say was so inspired at finding himself in the same 
city with Bess Pierrepoint that he could talk of nothing 
else, and seemed to have no thought of his own danger 
or his Queen’s. No, but he hath told me that he will 
give up all to serve her, without hope of requital ; for 
her mother hath made her forswear him, and though 
she be not always on his tongue, he will do so, if I 
mistake not his steadfastness.” 

Susan sighed, but she knew that the love, that had 
begun when the lonely boy hailed the shipwrecked 
infant as his little sister, was of a calm, but unquench- 
able nature, were it for weal or woe. She could not 
but be thankful that the express mandate of both the 
parents had withheld her son from sharing the danger 
which was serious enough even for her husband’s 
prudence and coolness of head. 

By the morning, .as she had predicted, the ardour 
of the Earl and Countess had considerably slackened ; 
and though still willing to forward the petitioner on 
her way, they did not wish their names to appear in 
the matter. 

They did, however, make an important offer. The 
Mastiff newly come into harbour at Hull, and they 
offered Kichard the use of her as a conveyance. He 
gladly accepted it. The saving of expense was a great 


XXXVII.] MY LADY’S ItEMOUSE, 487 

object ; for he was most unwilling to use Queen Mary’s 
order on the French Ambassador, and ho likewise 
deemed it possible that such a means of evasion might 
be very useful. 

The Mastiff was sometimes used by some of the 
Talbot family on journeys to London, and had a toler- 
ably commodious cabin, according to the notions of the 
time ; and though it was late in the year, and poor Cis 
was likely to be wretched enough on the voyage, the 
additional security was worth having, and Cicely would 
be under the care of Goatley’s wife, who made all the 
voyages with her liusband. The Earl likewise charged 
Richard Talbot with letters and messages of conciliation 
to his son Gilbert, whose estrangement was a great 
grief to him, arising as it did entirely from the quarrels 
of the two wives, mother and daughter. He even 
charged his kinsman with the proposal to give up 
Sheffield to Lord and Lady Talbot and retire to Wing- 
field rather than continue at enmity. Mr. Talbot knew 
the parties too well to have much hope of prevailing, 
or producing permanent peace; but the commission 
was welcome, as it would give a satisfactory pretext 
for his presence in London. 

A few days were spent at Bridgefield, Cicely making 
herself the most loving, helpful, and charming of 
daughters, and really basking in the peaceful atmo- 
sphere of Susan’s presence; and then, — with many 
prayers and blessings from that good lady, — they set 
forth for Hull, taking with them two servants besides 
poor Babington’s man Gillingham, whose superior intel- 
ligence and knowledge of London would make him 
useful, though there was a dark brooding look about 
him that made Richard always dread some act of 
revenge on his part toward his master’s foes. 


488 


UNKNOWN TO UlSTOKY. 


[CHAP. 


CHAPTEE XXXVIIL 

MASTER TALBOT AND HIS CHARGE. 

The afternoon on which they were to enter the old 
town of Kingston-upon-HuU closed in with a dense 
sea-fog, fast turning to drizzliug rain. They could see 
but a little distance on either side, and could not see 
the lordly old church tower. The beads of dew on the 
fringes of her pony’s ears were more visible to Cicely 
than anything else, and as she kept along by Master 
Richard’s side, she rejoiced both in the beaten, well- 
trodden track, and in the pealing bells which seemed 
to guide them into the haven ; while Richard was re- 
volving, as he had done all through the journey, where 
he could best lodge his companion so as to be safe, and 
at the same time free from inconvenient curiosity. 

The wetness of the evening made promptness of 
decision the more needful, while the bad weather which 
his experienced eye foresaw would make the choice 
more important. 

Discerning through the increasing gloom a lantern 
moving in the street which seemed to him to light a sub- 
stantial cloaked figure, he drew up and asked if he wen? 
in the way to a well-known hostel. Fortune had favoure<i 
him, for . voice demanded in return, “ Do I hear the 
voice of good Captain Talbot ? At your service.” 


XXXVIIL] MA.STER TALBOT AND HIS CHARGE. 489 

“ Yea, it is I — Richard Talbot. Is it you, good 
Master Heatherthwayte ?” 

“ It is verily, sir. Well do I remember you, good 
trusty Captain, and the goodly lady your wife. Do I 
see her here ?” returned the clergyman, who had 
heartily grasped Richard’s hand. 

“ No, sir, this is my daughter, for whose sake I 
would ask you to direct me to some lodging for the 
night.” 

“Nay, if the young lady will put up with my 
humble chambers, and my little daughter for her bed- 
fellow, I would not have so old an acquaintance go 
farther.” 

Ricliard accepted the offer gladly, and Mr. Heather- 
thwayte walked close to the horses, using his lantern 
to direct them, and sending flashes of light over the 
gabled ends of the old houses and the muffled pass- 
engers, till they came to a long flagged passage, when 
he asked them to dismount, bidding the servants and 
horses to await his return, and giving his hand to con- 
duct the young lady along the narrow slippery alley, 
which seemed to have either broken walls or houses on 
either side. 

He explained to Richard, by the way, that he had 
married the godly widow of a shipchandler, but that it 
had pleased Heaven to take her from him at the end 
of five years, leaving him two young children, but that 
her ancient nurse had the care of the house and the 
little ones. 

Curates were not sumptuously lodged in those days. 
The cells which had been sufficient for monks commis- 
sioned by monasteries were no homes for men with 
families ; and where means were to be had, a few rooms 
had been added without much grace, or old cottages 


490 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

adapted — for indeed the requirements of tho clergy of 
the day did not soar above those of the farmer or petty 
dealer. Master Heatherthwayte pulled a string de- 
pending from a hole in a door, the place of which he 
seemed to know by instinct, and admitted the new- 
comers into a narrow paved entry, where he called 
aloud, “ Here, Oil ! Dust ! Goody ! Bring a light ! 
Here are guests !” 

A door was opened instantly into a large kitchen 
or keeping room, bright with a fire and small lamp. 
A girl of nine or ten sprang forward, but hung back at 
the sight of strangers ; a boy of twelve rose awkwardly 
from conning his lessons by the low, unglazed lamp ; an 
old woman showed herself from some kind of pantry. 

“ Here,” said the clergyman, “ is my most esteemed 
friend Captain Talbot of Bridgefield and his daughter, 
who will do us the honour of abiding with us this night. 
Do thou, Goody Madge, and thou, Oil-of-Gladness, make 
the young lady welcome, and dry her garments, while 
we go and see to the beasts. Thou, Dust-and- Ashes, 
mayest come with us and lead the gentleman’s horse.” 

The lad, saddled with this dismal name, and arrayed 
in garments which matched it in colour though not in 
uncleanliness, sprang up with alacrity, infinitely prefer- 
ring fog, rain, and darkness to his accidence, and never 
guessing that he owed this relaxation to his father’s 
recollection of Mrs. Talbot’s ways, and perception that 
the young lady would be better attended to without his 
presence. 

Oil-of-Gladness was a nice little rosy girl in the 
tightest and primmest of caps and collars, and with the 
little housewifely hospitality that young mistresses of 
houses early attain to. There was no notion of equal 
terms between the Curate’s daughter and the Squire’s : 


XXXVIII.] MASTER TALBOT AND HIS CHARGE. 491 

the child brought a chair, and stood respectfully to 
receive the hood, cloak, and riding skirt, seeming 
delighted at the smile and thanks with which Cicely 
requited her attentions. The old woman felt the inner 
skirts, to make sure that they were not damp, and then 
the little girl brought warm water, and held the bowl 
while her guest washed face and hands, and smoothed 
her hair with the ivory comb which ladies always carried 
on a journey. The sweet power of setting people at 
ease was one Cis had inherited and cultivated by imita- 
tion, and Oil -of- Gladness was soon chattering away 
over her toilette. Would the lady really sleep with 
her in her little bed ? She would promise not to kick 
if she could help it. Then she exclaimed, “ Oh ! what 
fair thing was that at the lady’s throat ? Was it a 
jewel of gold ? She had never seen one ; for father 
said it was not for Christian women to adorn them- 
selves. Oh no ; she did not mean ” and, confused, 

she ran off to help Goody to lay the spotless tablecloth, 
Cis following to set the child at peace with herself, and 
unloose the tongue again into hopes that the lady liked 
conger pie ; for father had bought a mighty conger for 
twopence, and Goody had made a goodly pie of him. 

By the time the homely meal was ready Mr. Talbot 
had returned from disposing of his horses and servants 
at a hostel, for whose comparative respectability Mr 
Heatherthwayte had answered. The clergyman himself 
alone sat down to supper with his guests. He would 
r.ot hear of letting either of his children do so ; but 
while Dust-aud-Ashes retired to study his tasks for the 
Grammar School by firelight. Oil -of- Gladness assisted 
Goody in waiting, in a deft and ready manner pleasant 
to behold. 

Ho sooner did Mr. Talbot mer tion the name Cicely 


492 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

thaD Master Heatherthwayte looked up and said — 
“ Methinks it was I who spake that name over this 
young lady in baptism.” 

“ Even so,” said Eichard. “ She knoweth all, but 
she hath ever been our good and dutiful daughter, for 
which we are the more thankful that Heaven hath 
given us none other maid child,” 

He knew Master Heatherthwayte was inclined to 
curiosity about other people’s affairs, and therefore 
turned the discourse on the doiugs of his sons, hoping 
to keep him thus employed and avert all further con- 
versation upon Cicely and the cause of the journey. 
The good man was most interested in Edward, only he 
exhorted Mr. Talbot to be careful with whom he be- 
stowed the stripling at Cambridge, so that he might 
shed the pure Eght of the Gospel, undimmed by 
Popish obscurities and idolatries. 

He began on his objections to the cross in baptism 
and the ring in marriage, and dilated on them to his 
own satisfaction over the tankard of ale that was 
placed for him and his guest, and the apples and nuts 
wherewith Cicely was surreptitiously feeding Oil -of - 
Gladness and Dust-and- Ashes ; while the old woman 
bustled about, and at length made her voice heard in 
the announcement that the chamber was ready, and the 
young lady was weary with travel, and it w^aL time she 
was abed, and Oil Ekewise. 

Though not very young children. Oil and Dust, at 
a sign from their father, knelt by his chair, and uttered 
their evening prayers aloud, after which he blessed and 
dismissed them — the boy to a shake-down in his own 
room, the girl to the ecstasy of assisting the guest to 
undress, and admiring the wonders of the very simple 
toilette apparatus contained in her little cl »ak bag. 


493 


XXXVin.] MASTER TALBOT AND HIS CHARGE. 

Richard meantime was responding as best he could 
to the inquiries he knew would be inevitable as soon 
as he fell in with the Reverend Master Heatherthwayte. 
He was going to London in the Mastiff on some busi- 
ness connected with the Queen of Scots, he said. 

Wliereupon Mr. Heatherthwayte quoted something 
from the Psalms about the wicked being taken in theii 
own pits, and devoutly hoped she would not escape this 
time. His uncharitableness might be excused by the 
fact that he viewed it as an immediate possibility that 
the Prince of Parma might any day enter the Humber, 
when he would assuredly be burnt alive, and Oil-of- 
Gludness exposed to the fate of the children of Haarlem. 

Then he added, “ I grieved to hear that you and 
your household were so much exposed to the witchcrafts 
of that same woman, sir.” 

“ I hope she hath done them little hurt,” said 
Richard.” 

“ Is it true,” he added, “ that the woman hath laid 
claim to the young lady now here as a kinswoman ?” 

“ It is true,” said Richard, “ but how hath it come 
to your knowledge, my good friend ? I deemed it 
known to none out of our house ; not even the Earl and 
Countess guess that she is no child of ours.” 

“ Nay, Mr. Talbot, is it weU to go on in a deceit ?” 

“ Call it=rather a concealment,” said Richard. “ We 
have doubted it since, but when we began, it was merely 
til at there was none to whom it seemed needful to 
explain that the babe was not the little daughter we 
bailed here. But how did you learn it? It imports 
to know.” 

“ Sir, do you remember your old servant Colet, 
Gervas’s wife ? It will be three years next Whitsun- 
tide that hsaring a great outcry as of a woman mal- 


494 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[chap. 

ireated as I passed in the street, I made my way into 
the house and found Gervas verily heating his wife with 
a broomstick. After I had rebuked him and caused him 
to desist, I asked him tlie cause, and he declared it to 
be that his wife had been gadding to a stinking Papist 
fellow, who would be sure to do a mischief to his noble 
captain, Mr. Talbot. Thereupon Colet declares that she 
had done no harm, the gentleman wist all before. She 
knew him again for the captain’s kinsman who was in 
the house the day that the captain brought home the 
babe.” 

“ Cuthbert Langston !” 

“ Even so, sir. It seems that he had been with this 
woman, and questioned her closely on all she remem- 
bered of the child, learning from her what I never knew 
before, that there were marks branded on her shoulders 
and a letter sewn in her clothes. Was it so, sir ?” 

“ Ay, but my wife and I thought that even Colet 
liad never seen them.” 

“ Nothing can escape a woman, sir. This man drew 
all from her by assuring her that the maiden belonged 
to some great folk, and was even akin to the King and 
Queen of Scots, and that she might have some great 
reward if she told her story to them. She even sold 
him some three or four gold and ivory beads which she 
says she found when sweeping out the room where the 
child was first undressed ” 

“ Hath she ever heard more of the fellow ?” 

“ Nay, but Gervas since told me that he had met 
some of my Lord’s men who told him that' your daughter 
was one of the Queen of Scots’ ladies, and said he, ‘ I 
held my peace ; but methouglit. It hath come of the 
talebearing of that fellow to whom my wife prated.’ ” 

" Gervas guessed right,” said Eichard. “ That Lang- 


XXXVIII.] MASTER TALBOT AND HIS CHARGE. 495 

ston did contrive to make known to the Qiie^ of Scots 
such tokens as led to her owning the maiden as of 
near kin to her by the mother’s side, and to her husband 
on the father’s ; but for many reasons she entreated us 
to allow the damsel still to bear our name, and be treated 
as our child.” 

“ I doubt me whether it were well done of you, sir,” 
said Mr. Heatherthwayte. 

" Of that,” said llichard, drawing up into himself, 
“ no man can judge for another.” 

“ She hath been with that woman ; she wUl have 
imbibed her Popish vanities !” exclaimed the poor clergy- 
man, almost ready to start up and separate OH-of-Glad- 
ness at once from the contamination. 

“ You may ^e easy on that score,” said Eichard 
drily. “ Her faith is what my good wife taught her, 
and she hath constantly attended the preachings of the 
chaplains of Sir Amias Paulett, who be aU of your own 
way of thinking.” 

“ You assure me ?” said Mr. Heatherthwayte, “ for 
it is the nature of these folk to act a part, even as did 
the parent the serpent.” 

Often as Eichard had thought so himself, he was 
offended now, and rose, “ If you think I have brought 
a serpent into your house, sir, we will take shelter else- 
where. I will call her.” 

Mr. Heatherthwayte apologised and protested, and 
showed himself willing to accept the assurance that 
Cicely was as simple and guileless as his own little 
maid ; and Mr. Talbot, not wishing to be sent adrift 
with Cicely at that time of night, and certainly not to 
put such an aftront on the good, if over-anxious father, 
was pacified, but the cordial tom of ease was at an end, 
and they were glad to separate Jid retire to rest. 


496 


UNKNOWN TO HlSTOKY. 


[CU VP. 

Richard had much cause for thought. lie perceived, 
what had always been a perplexity to liim before, how 
Langston had arrived at the knowledge that enabled 
him to identify Cicely with the babe of Loclileven. 

Mr. Talbot heard meanings and wailings of wind all 
night, which to his experience here meant either a three 
days’ detention at Hull, or a land journey. With dawn 
there were gusts and showers. He rose betimes and 
went downstairs. He could hear his good host praying 
aloud in his room, and feeling determined not to vex that 
Puritan spirit by the presence of Queen Mary’s pupil, he 
wrapped his cloak about him and went out to study the 
weather, and inquire for lodgings to which he might 
remove Cicely. He saw nothing he liked, and deter - 
mined on consulting his old mate, Goatley, who gener- 
ally acted as skipper, but he had first to return so as 
not to delay the morning meal. He found, on coming 
in. Cicely helping Oil -of- Gladness in making griddle 
cakes, and buttering them, so as to make Mr. Heather- 
thwayte declare that he had not tasted the like since 
Mistress Susan quitted Hull. 

Moreover, he had not sat down to the meal more 
than ten minutes before he discovered, to his secret 
amusement, that Cicely had perfectly fascinated and 
charmed the good minister, who would have shuddered 
had he known that she did so by the graces inherited 
and acquired from the object of his abhorrence. Invi- 
tations to abide in their present quarters till it was 
possible to sail were pressed on them ; and though 
Richard showed himself unwilling to accept them, they 
were so cordially reiterated, that he felt it wiser to 
accede to them rather than spread the mystery farther. 
He was never quite sure whether Mr. Heatherthwayte 
looked on the young lady as untainted, or whether he 


497 


XXXVIII.] MASTER TALBOT AND HIS CHARGE. 

wished to secure her in his own instructions ; but he 
always described her as a modest and virtuous young 
lady, and so far from thinking her presence dangerous, 
only wished Oil to learn as much from her as possible. 

Cicely was sorely disappointed, and wanted to ride 
un at once by land ; but when her foster-father had 
shown her that the bad weather would be an almost 
equal obstacle, and that much time would be lost on 
the road, she submitted with the good temper she had 
cultivated under such a notable example. She taught 
Oil-of-Gladness the cookery of one of her mothers and 
the stitchery of the other ; she helped Dust-and- Ashes 
with his accidence, and enlightened him on the sports 
of the Bridgefield boys, so that his father looked round 
dismayed at the smothered laughter, when she assured 
him that she wRs only telling how her brother Diccon 
caught a coney, or the like, and in some magical way 
smoothed down his frowns with her smile. 

Mistress Cicely Talbot’s visit was likely to be an 
unforgotten era with Dust-and-Aslies and Oil-of-Glad- 
ness. The good curate entreated that she and her 
father would lodge there on their return, and the invi- 
tation was accepted conditionally, Mr. Talbot writing 
to his wife, by the carriers, to send such a load of good 
cheer from Bridgefield as would amply compensate for 
the expenses of ^his hospitality. 


498 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[CHAI 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE FETTERLOCK COURT. 

People did not pity themselves so much for suspense 
when, instead of receiving an answer in less than an 
hour, they had to wait for it for weeks if not months. 
Mrs. Talbot might be anxious at Bridgefield, and her 
son at Fotheringhay, and poor Queen Mary, whose life 
hung in the balance, more heartsick with what old 
writers well named wanhope than any of them ; but 
they had to live on, and rise morning after morning 
without expecting any intelligence, unable to do any- 
thing but pray for those who might be in perils un- 
known. 

After the strain and effort of her trial, Mary had 
become very ill, and kept her bed for many days 
Humfrey continued to fulfil his daily duties as com- 
mander of the guards set upon her, but he seldom saw 
or spoke with any of her attendants, as Sir Andrew 
Melville, whom he knew the best of them, Lad on 
some suspicion been separated from his mistress and 
confined in another part of the Castle. 

Sir Amias Paulett, too, was sick with gout and 
anxiety, and was much relieved when Sir Drew Drury 
was sent to his assistance. The new warder was a 
more courteous and easy-mannered person, and did not 


THE FETTERLOCK COURT. 


499 


XXXIX.] 

fret himself or the prisoner with precautions like his 
colleague; and on Sir Amias’s reiterated complai»t 
that the guards were not numerous enough, he had 
brought down five fresh men, hired in London, fellows 
used to all sorts of weapons, and at home in military 
discipline; but, as Humfrey soon perceived, at home 
likewise in the license of camps, and most incongruous 
companions for the simple village bumpkins, and the 
precise retainers who had hitherto formed the garrison. 
He did his best to keep order, but marvelled how Sir 
Amias would view their excesses when he should come 
forth again from his sick chamber. 

The Queen was better, though still lame ; and on 
a fine November noontide she obtained, by earnest 
entreaty, permission to gratify her longing for free air 
by taking a turn in what was called the Fetterlock 
Court, from the Yorkist badge of the falcon and fetter- 
lock carved profusely on the decorations. This was the 
inmost strength of the castle, on the highest ground, 
an octagon court, with the keep closing" one side of it, 
and the others surrounded with huge massive walls, 
shutting in a greensward with a well. There was 
a broad commodious terrace in the thickness of the 
walls, intended as a station whence the defenders could 
shoot between the battlements, but in time of peace 
forming a pleasant promenade sheltered from the wind, 
and catching on its northern side the meridian rays of 
this Martinmas summer day, so that physician as well 
as jailer consented to permit the captive there to take 
the air. 

“ Some watch there must be,” said Paulett anxiously, 
when his colleague reported the consent he had given. 

“ It will suffice, then,” said Sir Drew Drury, “ if 
the officer of the guard — Talbot call you him ? — stands 


500 UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY [CHAP 

at the angle of the court, so as to keep her in his view, 
He is a well-nurtured youth, and will not vex her.” 

“ Let him have the guard within call,” said Paulette 
and to this Drury assented, perhaps ' with a little 
amusement at the restless precautions of the invalid. 

Accordingly, Humfrey took up his station, as unob- 
trusively as he could, at the corner of the terrace, and 
presently, through a doorway at the other end .saw the 
Queen, hooded and cloaked, come forth, leaning heavily 
on the arm of Dr. Bourgoin, and attended by the two 
Maries and the two elder ladies. She moved slowly, 
and paused every few steps, gazing round her, inhaling 
the fresh air and enjoying the sunshine, or speaking a 
caressing word to little Bijou, who leaped about, and 
harked, and whined with delight at having her out of 
doors again. There was a seat in the wall, and her 
ladies spread cushions and cloaks for her to sit on it, 
warmed as it was by the sun ; and there she rested, 
watching a starling running about on the turf, his 
gold-bespangled green plumage glistening. She hardly 
spoke; she seemed to be making the most of the 
repose of the fair calm day. Humfrey would not 
intrude by making her sensible of his presence, hut he 
watched her from his station, wondering within him- 
self if she cared for the peril to which she had exposed 
the daughter so dear to him. 

Such were his thoughts when an angry bark from 
Bijou warned him to be on the alert. A man — ay, 
one of the new men-at-arms — was springing up the 
ramp leading to the summit of the wall almost im- 
mediately in front of the little group. There was « 
gleam of steel in his hjind. With one long ringing 
whistle, Humfrey bounded from his place, and at the 
moment when the ruffian was on the point of assailing 


XXXIX.] THE FETTERLOCK COURT. 501 

the Queen , he caught him with one hand by the collar; 
with the other tried to master the arm that held the 
weapon. It was a sharp struggle, for the fellow was a 
trained soldier in the full strength of manhood, and 
Humfrey was a youth of twenty-three, and unarmed. 
They went down together, rolling on the ground before 
IVtary’s chair ; but in another moment Humfrey was 
the uppermost. He had his knee on the fellow’s chest, 
and held aloft, though in a bleeding hand, the dagger 
wrenched from him. The victory had been won in a 
few seconds, before the two men, whom his whistle had 
brought, had time to rush forward. They were ready 
now to throw themselves on the assailant. “Hold!” 
cried Humfrey, speaking for the first time. “ Hurt him 
not ! Hold him fast till I have him to Sir Amias !” 

Each had an arm of the fallen man, and Humfrey 
rose to meet the eyes of the Queen sparkling, as she 
cried, “ Bravely, bravely done, sir 1 We thank you. 
Though it be but the poor remnant of a worthless life 
that you have saved, we thank you. The sight of 
your manhood has gladdened us.” 

Humfrey bowed low, and at the same time there 
was a cry among the ladies that he was bleeding. It 
was only his hand, as he showed them. The dagger 
had been drawn across the palm before he could 
capture it. The kerchiefs were instantly brought 
forward to bind it up. Dr. Bourgoin saying that it 
ought to have Master Gorion’s attention. 

“ I may not wait for that, sir,” said Humfrey. “ I 
must carry this villain at once to Sir Amias and 
repoit on the affair.” 

“Hay, but you will come again to be tended,” 
said the Queen, wlide Dr. Bourgoin fastened the 
knot of the temporary bandage “ Ah 1 and is it 


502 UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. [CHAP 

Humfrey Talbot to whom I owe my life ? There is 
one who will thank thee for it more than even L 
But come back. Gorion must treat thaf hand, and 
then you will teU me what you have heard of her.” 

“Naught, alas, madam,” said Humfrey with an 
expressive shake of the head, but ere he turned away 
Mary extended her hand to him, and as he bent his 
knee to kiss it she laid the other kindly on his dark 
curled head and said, “ God bless thee, brave youth.” 

She was escorted to the door nearest to her apart- 
ments, and as she sank back on her day bed she could 
not help murmuring to Mary Seaton, “ A brave laddie. 
Would that he had one drop of princely blood.” 

“ The Talbot blood is not amiss,” said the lady. 

“ True ; and were it but mine own Scottish royalty 
that were in question I should see naught amiss, but 
with this English right that hath been the bane of us 
aU, what can their love bring the poor children save 
woe ?” 

Meantime Humfrey was conducting his prisoner to 
Sir Amias Paulett. The man was a bronzed, tough- 
looking ruffian, with an air of having seen service, and 
a certain foreign touch in his accent. He glanced 
somewhat contemptuously at his captor, and said, 
“ Neatly done, sir ; I marvel if you’ll get any 
thanks.” 

“ What mean you ?” said Humfrey sharply, but the 
fellow only shrugged his shoulders. The whole affair 
liad been so noiseless, that Humfrey brought the first 
intelligence when he was admitted to the sick chamber, 
where Sir Amias sat in a large chair by the fire. He 
had left his prisoner guarded by two men at the door. 

“How now! What is it?” cried Paulett at first 
sight of h's bandaged hand. “ Is she safe ?” 


THE FETTEKLOCK COUKT. 


503 


XXXIX.] 

“ Even so, sir, and untouched,” said Humfrey. 

“ Thanks be to God !” he exclaimed. “ This is what 
I feared. Who was it ? ” 

"One of the new men-at-arms from London — 
Peter Pierson he called himself, and said he had 
served in the Netherlands.” 

And after a few further w^ords of explanation 
llumfrey called in the prisoner and his guards, and 
before his face gave an account of his attempt upon 
the helpless Queen. 

" Godless and murderous villain !” said Paulett, 
“ what hast thou to say for thyself that I should not 
hang thee from the highest tower ?” 

" Naught that will hinder you, worshipful seignior,” 
returned the man with a sneer. " In sooth I see no 
great odds between taking life with a dagger and with 
an axe, save that fewer folk are regaled with the 
spectacle.” 

" Wretch,” said Paulett, “ wouldst thou confound 
private murder with the open judgment of God and 
man ?” 

" Judgment hath been pronounced,” said the 
fellow, " but it needs not to dispute the matter. 
Only if this honest youth had not come blundering in 
and cut his fingers in the fray, your captive would 
have been quietly rid of all her troubles, and I should 
have had my reward from certain great folk you wot 
of. Ay,” as Sir Amias turned still yellower, “ you 
take my meaning, sir.” 

" Take him away,” said Paulett, collecting himself ; 
' he would cloak his crime by accusing others of his 
desperate wickedness.” 

"Where, sir?” inquired Humfrey. 

Sir Amias would have preferred hanging the fdlow 


504 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

without inquiry, hut as rotheringliay r/as not under 
martial law, he ordered him off to the dungeons for 
tlie present, while the nearest justice of the peace \vas 
sent for. The kniglit bade Humfrey remain while the 
prisoner was walked off under due guard, and marie a 
few more inquiries, adding, with a sigh, “ You must 
double the guard. Master Talbot, and get rid of all 
those London rogues — sons of Belial are they all, and 
ITl have none for whom I cannot answer — for I fea. 
me ’tis all too true what the fellow says.” 

“Who would set him on ?” 

“ That I may not say. But would you believe it, 
Humfrey Talbot, I have been blamed — ay, rated like 
a hound, for that I will not lend myself to a privy 
murder.” 

“Verily, sir?” 

“Verily, and indeed, young man. ’Tis the part of a 
loyal subject, they say, to spare her Majesty’s womanish 
feelings and her hatred of bloodshed, and this lady 
having been condemned, to take her off secretly so as 
to save the Queen the pain and heart -searchings of 
signing the warrant. You credit me not, sir, but I have 
the letter — to my sorrow and shame.” 

No wonder that the poor, precise, hard-hearted, but 
religious and high-principled man was laid up with 
a fit of the gout, after receiving the shameful letter 
which he described, which is still extant, signed by 
Walsingham and Davison. 

“ Strange loyalty,” said Humfrey. 

“And too much after the Spanish sort for an 
English Protestant,” said Sir Amias. “ I made answer 
that I would lay down my life to guard this unhappy 
woman to undergo the justice that is to be done upon 
her, but murder her, or allow her to be slain in my 


XXXIX.] THE FETTERLOCK COURT. 505 

hands, I neitJier can nor will, so help me Heaven, 
as a true though sinful man.” 

“ Amen,” said Humfrey. 

•'"And no small cause of thanks have I that in 
yo'a, young sir, I have one who may he trusted foi 
faith as well as courage, and I need not say dis- 
cretion.” 

As he spoke, Sir Drew Drury, who had been out 
riding; returned, anxious to hear the details of this 
strange event. Sir Amias could not leave his room. 
Sir Drew accompanied Humfrey to the Queen’s apart- 
ments to hear her account and that of her attendants. 
It was given with praises of the young gentleman 
which put him to the blush, and Sir Drew then gave 
permission for his hurt to he treated by Maitre Gorion, 
and left him in the antechamber for tlie purpose. 

Sir Amias' would perhaps have done more wisely if 
he had not detained Humfrey from seeing the criminal 
guarded to his prison. For Sir Drew Drury, going 
from the Queen’s presence to interrogate the feUow 
before sending for a magistrate, found the ceU empty. 
It had been the turn of duty of one of the new 
London men-at-arms, and he had been placed as 
sentry at the door by the sergeant — the stupidest and 
trustiest of fellows — who stood gaping in utter amaze- 
ment when he found that sentry and prisoner were 
both alike missing. 

On the whole, the two warders agreed that it 
would be wiser to hush up the matter. When Mary 
heard that the man had escaped, she quietly said, “ I 
understand. They know how to do such things better 
abroad.” 

Things returned to their usi.al state except that 
Humfrey had permission to go daily to liave his hand 


506 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chat 

attended to by M. Gorion, and the Queen never let 
pass this opportunity of speaking to him, though the 
very first time she ascertained that he knew as little 
as she did of the proceedings of his father and Cicely. 

Now, for the first time, did Huinfrey understand 
the charm that had captivated Babington, and that 
even his father confessed. Ailing, aging, and suffering 
as she was, and in daily expectation of her sentence 
of death, there was still something more wonderfully 
winning about her, a sweet patlietic cheerfulness, kind- 
ness, and resignation, that filled his heart with devotion 
to her. And then she spoke of Cicely, the rarest and 
greatest delight that he could enjoy. She evidently 
regarded him with favour, if not affection, because he 
loved the maiden whom she could not but deny to 
him. Would he not do anything for her ? Ay, 
anything consistent with duty. And there came a 
twinge which startled him. Was she making him 
value duty less ? Never. Besides, how few days he 
could see her. His hand was healing all too fast, 
and what might not come any day from London ? 
Was Queen Mary’s last conquest to be that of Humfrey 
Talbot? 


THE SENTENCK 


607 


XL] 


CHAPTEE XL. 

THE SENTENCE. 

The tragedies of the stage compress themselves into a 
few hours, but the tragedies of real life are of slow and 
heavy march, and the heart-sickness of delay and hope 
and dread alike deferred is one of their chief trials. 

Humfrey’s hurt was quite well, but as he was at 
once trusted by his superiors, and acceptable to the 
captive, he was employed in many of those lesser com- 
munications between her and her keepers, for which the 
two knights did not feel it necessary to harass her with 
their presence. His post, for half the twenty-four hours, 
was on guard in the gallery outside her anteroom door ; 
but he often knocked and was admitted as bearer of 
some message to her or her household ; and equally 
often was called in to hear her requests, and sometimes 
he could not help believing because it pleased her to 
see him, even if there were nothing to tell her. 

Nor was there anything known until the 19th of 
November, when the sound of horses’ feet in large num- 
bers, and the blast of bugles, announced the arrival of 
a numerous party. When marshalled into the ordinary 
dining-hall, they proved to be Lord Buckhurst, a dig- 
nified-looking nobleman, who bore a sad and grave 
countenance full of presage, with Mr. Beale, the Clerk 


508 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[char. 

of the Council, and two or three other oflBcials and 
secretaries, among whom Humfrey perceived the inevit- 
able Will Cavendish. 

The two old comrades quickly sought each other 
out. Will observing, “ So here you are still, Humfrey. 
We are like to see the end of a long story.” 

“ How so ? ” asked Humfrey, with a thrill of horror, 
“ is she sentenced ?” 

“ By the Commissioners, all excepting my Lord 
Zouch, and by both houses of Parliament ! We are 
come down to announce it to her. I’ll have you into 
the presence-chamber if I can prevail. It will be a 
noteworthy thing to see how the daughter of a hundred 
kings brooks such a sentence.” 

“Hath no one spoken for her?” asked Humfrey, 
thinking at least as much of Cicely as of the victim. 

“The King of Scots hath sent an ambassage,” 
returned Cavendish, “ but when I say ’tis the Master 
of Gray, you know what that means. King James 
may be urgent to save his mother — nay, he hath written 
more sharply and shrewishly than ever he did before ; 
but as for this Gray, whatever he may say openly, we 
know that he has whispered to the Queen, ‘ The dead 
don’t bite.’ ” 

“ The villain !” 

“ That may be, so far as he himself is concerned, but 
the counsel is canny, like the false Scot himself. What’s 
this I hear, Humfrey, that you have been playing the 
champion, and getting wounded in the defence ?” 

“ A mere nothing,” said Humfrey, opening his hand, 
however, to show the mark. “ I did but get my palm 
scored in hindering a villainous man-at-arms from 
slaying the poor lady.” 

“Yea, well are thy race named Talbot!” said 


THE SENTENCE. 


509 


XL.] 

Cavendish. " Sturdy watch-dogs are ye all, with never 
a notion that sometimes it may be for the good of all 
parties to look the other way.” 

“ If you mean that I am to stand by and see a help- 
less woman ” 

“ Hush ! my good friend,” said Will, holding up his 
hand. “ I know thy breed far too well to mean any 
such thing. Moreover, thy precisian governor, old 
Paulett there, hath repelled, like instigations of 
Satan, more hints than one that pain might be saved to 
one queen and publicity to the other, if he would have 
taken a leaf from Don Philip’s book, and permitted the 
lady to be dealt with secretly. Had he given an ear 
to the matter six months back, it would have spared 
poor Antony.” 

“ Speak not thus, Will,” said Humfrey, “ or thou 
wilt make me believe thee a worse man than thou art, 
only for the sake of showing me how thou art versed 
in state policy. TeU me, instead, if thou hast seen my 
father.” 

“ Thy father ? yea, verily, and I have a packet for 
thee from him. It is in my mails, and I will give it 
thee anon. He is come on a bootless errand ! As 
long as my mother and my sister Mall are both living, 
he might as well try to bring two catamounts together 
without hisses and scratches.” 

“Where is he lying?” asked Humfrey. 

“ In Shrewsbury House, after the family wont, and 
Gilbert makes him welcome enough, but Mall is angered 
with him for not lodging his daughter there likewise ! 
I tell her he is afraid lest she should get hold of the 
wench, and work up a fresh web of tales against this 
lady, like those which did so much damage before. 
Twould be rare if she made out that Gravity himself. 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


510 


[CHAP. 


in the person of old Paulett, had been entranced by 
her.” 

“ Peace with thy gibes,” said Humfrey impatiently, 
‘ and tell me where my sister is.” 

“ Where thinkest thou ? Of all strange places in 
the world, he hath bestowed her with Madame de Sal- 
monnet, the wife of one of the French Ambassador’s 
following, to perfect her French, as he saith. Canst thou 
conceive wherefore he doth it ? Hath he any marriage 
in view for her ? Mall tried to find out, but he is 
secret. Tell me, Humps, what is it ?” 

“ If he be secret, must not I be the same ?” said 
Humfrey, laughing. 

“Nay, thou owest me some return for all that I 
have told thee.” 

“ Marry, Will, that is more like a maiden than a 
statesman ! But be content, comrade, I know no more 
than thou what purposes there may be anent my sister’s 
marriage,” he added. “ Only if thou canst give me my 
father’s letter, I should be beholden to thee.” 

They were interrupted, however, by a summons to 
Humfrey, who was to go to the apartments of the 
Queen of Scots, to bear the information that in the 
space of half an hour the Lord Buckhurst and Master 
Beale would do themselves the honour of speaking with 
her. 

“ So,” muttered Cavendish to himself as Humfrey 
went up the stairs, “there is then some secret. I 
marvel what it bodes ! Did not that crafty villain 
Langston utter some sort of warning which I spurned, 
knowing the Bridgefield trustiness and good faith ? 
Tliis wench hath been miglitily favoured by the lady. 
I must see to it.” 

Meantime Humfrey had been admitted to Queen 


THE SENTENCE. 


511 


xk] 

Mary’s room., wliere she sat as usual at hei needlework. 
“ You bring me tidings, my friend,” she said, as he bent 
his knee before her. “ Methought I heard a fresh stir 
in the Castle ; who is arrived ? ” 

“ T]*e Lord Buckhurst, so please your Grace, and 
Master Beale. They crave an audience of your Grace 
in half an hour’s time.” 

“ Yea, and I can well guess wherefore,” said the 
Queen. '‘WqM, Fiat voluntac tua! Buckhurst? he is 
kinsman of Elizabeth on the Boleyn side, methinks ! 
She would do me grace, you see, my masters, by sending 
me such tidings by her cousin. They cannot hurt me ! 
I am far past that ! So let us have no tears, my 
lassies, but receive them right royally, as befits a mess- 
age from one sovereign to another ! Remember, it is 
Qot before my Lord Buckhurst and Master Beale that 
we sit, but befoTe all posterities for evermore, who will 
hear of Mar)' Stewart and her wrongs. Tell them I 
am ready, sir Nay but, my son,” she added, with a 
very different tone of the tender woman instead of the 
outraged sovereign, “ I see thou hast news for me. Is 
it of the child ?” 

“ Even so, madam. I wot little yet, but what I 
know is hopeful. She is with Madame de Salmonnet, 
wife of one of the suite of the French Ambassador.” 

“ Ah ! that speaketh much,” said Mary, smiling, 
“ more than you know, young man. Salmonnet is 
sprung of a Scottish archer, Jockie of the salmon net, 
whereof they made in France M. de Salmonnet. 
Ch^teauneuf must have owned her, and put her under 
the protection of the Embassy. Hast thou had a letter 
from thy father ?” 

“ I am told that one is among Will Cavendish’s 
mails, madam, and I hope to have it anon.” 


512 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

"Tliese men have all unawares brought with them 
that which may well bear me up through whatever 
may be coming.” 

A second message arrived from Lord Buckhurst 
himself, to say how grieved he was to be the bearer of 
heavy tidings, and to say that he would not presume 
to intrude on her Majesty’s presence until she would 
notify to him that she was ready to receive him. 

“ They have become courteous,” said Mary. “ But 
why should we dally ? The sooner this is over, the 
better.” 

The gentlemen were then admitted : Lord Buck- 
hurst grave, sad, stately, and courteous ; Sir Amias 
Paulett, as usual, grim and wooden in his puritanical 
stiffness ; Sir Drew Drury keeping in the background 
as one grieved ; and Mr. Beale, who had already often 
harassed the Queen before, eager, forward, and per- 
emptory, as one whose exultation could hardly be 
repressed by respect for his superior. Lord Buckhurst. 

Bending low before her, this nobleman craved lier 
pardon for that which it was his duty to execute ; and 
having kissed her hand, in token of her personal for- 
giveness, he bade Mr. Beale read the papers. 

The Clerk of the Council stood forth almost without 
obeisance, till it was absolutely compelled from him by 
Buckhurst. He read aloud the details of the judg- 
ment, that Mary had been found guilty by the Com- 
mission, of conspiracy against the kingdom, and the 
life of the Queen, with the sentence from the High 
Court of Parliament that she was to die by being 
beheaded. 

Mary listened with unmoved countenance, only she 
stood up and maile solemn protest against the autimrity 
and power of the Commission either to try or condemn 


THE SENTENCE. 


513 


XL.J 

her. Beale was about to reply, but Lord Buckliurst 
checked him, telling him it was simply his business 
to record tlie protest ; and then adding that he was 
charged to warn her to put away all hopes of mercy, 
and to prepare for death. This, he said, was on behalf 
of his Queen, who implored her to disburthen her 
consmence by a full confession. “ It is not her work,” 
a-Jdod Buckhurst ; “ the sentence is not hers, but this 
thing is required by her people, inasmuch as her life 
can never be safe while your Grace lives, nor can her 
religion remain in any security.” 

Mary’s demeanour had hitherto been resolute. Here 
a brightness and look of thankful joy came over her, 
as she raised her eyes to Heaven and joined her hands, 
saying, “ I thank you, my lord ; you have made it all 
gladness to me, by declaring me to be an instrument 
in the cause of any religion, for which, unworthy as I 
am, I shall rejoice to shed my blood.” 

“ Saint and martyr, indeed !” broke out Paulett. 
“ That is fine ! when you are dying for plotting treason 
and murder !” 

“ Nay, sir,” gently returned Mary, “ I am not so 
presumptuous as to call myself saint or martyr ; but 
though you have power over my body, you have none 
over my soul, nor can you prevent me from hoping 
that by the mercy of Him who died for me, my blood 
and life may be accepted by Him, as offerings freely 
made for His Church.” 

She then begged for the restoration of her Almoner 
De Prdaux. She was told that the request would 
be referred to the Queen, but that she should have 
tlie attendance of an English Bishop and Dean. 
Paulett was so angered at the manner in wliich she 
had met the doom, that he began to threaten he/ 
2 L 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


514 


[chap 


that she would he denied all that could serve to her 
idolatries. 

“ Yea, verily,” said she calmly, " I am awarcj that 
the English have never been noted for mercy.” 

Lord Buckhurst succeeded in getting the knight 
away without any more bitter replies. Humfrey and 
Cavendish had, of course, to leave the room in their 
train, and as it was the hour of guard for the former, 
he had to take up his station and wait with what 
patience he could until it should please Master William 
to carry him the packet. He opened it eagerly, standing 
close beneath the little lamp that illuminated his post, 
to read it : but after all, it was somewhat disappointing, 
for Mr. Talbot did not feel that absolute confidence in 
the consciences of gentlemen -in -place which would 
make him certain of that of Master Cavendish, suppos- 
ing any notion should arise that Cicely’s presence in 
London could have any purpose connected with the 
prisoner. 

“ To my dear son Humfrey, greeting — 

“ I do you to wit that we are here safely arrived 
in London, though we were forced by stress of weather 
to tarry seven days in Hull, at the house of good 
Master Heath erthwayte, where we received good and 
hospitable entertainment. The voyage was a fair one, 
and the old Mastiff is as brave a little vessel as ever 
she was wont to be ; but thy poor sister lay abed all 
the time, and was right glad when we came into smooth 
water. We have presented the letters to those whom 
we came to seek, and so far matters have gone with 
us more towardly than I had expected. There are 
those who knew Cicely’s mother at her years who say 
there is a strange likeness between them, and who there- 


THE SENTENCE. 


515 


XL.] 

fore received her the more favourably. I am lying at 
present at Shrewsbury House, where my young Lord 
makes me welcome, but it hath been judged meet that 
thy sister should lodge with the good Madame de 
Salmonnet, a lady of Scottish birth, who is wife to one 
of the secretaries of M. de Chateauneuf, the French 
Ambassador, but who was bred in the convent of 
Soissons. She is a virtuous and honourable lady, and 
hath taken charge of thy sister while we remain in 
London. For the purpose for which we came, it goeth 
forward, and those who should know assure me that 
we do not lose time here. Diccon comniendeth him- 
self to thee; he is well in health, and hath much 
improved in all his exercises. Mistress Curll is lodging 
nigh unto the Strand, in hopes of being permitted to 
see her husband ; but that hath not yet been granted to 
her, although she is assured that he is well in health, 
and like ere long to be set free, as well as Monsieur 
Nau, 

^ “We came to London the day after the Parliament 
had pronounced sentence upon the Lady at Fother- 
inghay. I promise you there was ringing of bells and 
firing of cannon, and lighting of bonfires, so that we 
deemed that there must have been some great defeat 
of the Spaniards in the Low Countries ; and when we 
were told it was for joy that the Parliament had de- 
clared the Queen of Scots guilty of death, my poor 
Cicely had well-nigh swooned to think that there 
could be such joy for the doom of one poor sick lady. 
There hath been a petition to the Queen that the 
sentence may be carried out, and she hath answered in 
a dubious and uncertain manner, which leaves ground 
for hope ; and the King of Scots hath written pressingly 
and sent the Master of Gray to speak in his mother’s 


51G UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

behalf ; also M. de Chateauneuf hath both urged mercy 
on the Queen, and so written to France that King 
Henry is sending an Ambassador Extraordinary, M. de 
Bellievre, to intercede for her. 

‘‘ I send these presents by favour of Master Caven- 
dish, who will tell thee more than I have here space 
to set down, and can assure thee that nothing hasty is 
like to be done iu the business on which he hath come 
down with these gentlemen. And so no more at present 
from thy loving father, Eichard Talbot.” 

Humfrey had to gather what he could from this 
letter, but he had no opportunity of speech with the 
prisoner on the remainder of that day, nor on the next, 
until after Lord Buckhurst and his followers had left 
Fotheringhay, bearing with them a long and most touch- 
ing letter from the prisoner to Queen Elizabeth. 

On that day, Paulett worked himself up to the 
strange idea that it was for the good of the unfortunate 
prisoner’s soul, and an act of duty to his own sovereign, 
to march into the prison chamber and announce to 
Queen Mary that being a dead woman in the eye of 
the law, no royal state could be permitted her, in token 
of which he commanded her servants to remove the 
canopy over her chair. They all flatly refused to touch 
it, and the women began to cry “ Out upon him,” for 
being cowardly enough to insult their mistress ; and 
she calmly said, “ Sir, you may do as you please. My 
royal state comes from God, and is not yours to give or 
take away. I shall die a Queen, whatever you may 
do by such law as robbers in a forest might use with a 
rigliteous judge.” 

Intensely angered. Sir Amias came, hobbling and 
stumbling out to the door, pale with rage, and called 


THE SENTENCE. 


517 


XL.] 

on Talbot to come and bring his men to tear down the 
rag of vanity in which this contumacious woman put 
her trust. 

“The men are your servants, sir,” said Humfrey, 
with a flush on his cheek and his teeth set ; “ I am 
here to guard the Queen of Scots, not to insult her,” 

“ How, sirrah ? Do you know to whom you speak ? 
Have you not sworn obedience to me ? ” 

“ In all things within my commission, sir ; but this 
is as much beyond it, as I believe it to be beyond 
yours.” 

“ Insolent, disloyal varlet ! You are under ward 
till I can account with and discharge you. To your 
chamber !” 

Humfrey could but walk away, giieved that his 
power of bearing intelligence or alleviation to the 
prisoner had been? forfeited, and that he should probably 
not even take leave of lier. Was she to be left to all 
the insults that the malice of her persecutor could 
devise ? Yet it was not exactly malice. Paulett would 
have guarded her life from assassination with his own. 
though chiefly for his own sake, and, as he said, for that 
of “saving his poor posterity from so foul a blot ;” but he 
could not bear, as he told Sir Drew Drury, to see the 
Popish, bloodthirsty woman sit queening it so calmly ; 
and when he tore down her cloth of state, and sat down 
in her presence with his hat on, he did not so much 
intend to pain the woman, Mary, as to express the 
triumph of Elizabeth and of her religion. Humfrey be- 
lieved his service over, and began to occupy himself with 
putting his clothes together, while considering whether 
to seek his father in London or to go home. After 
about an hour, he was summoned to the hall, where 
he expected to have found Sir Amias Paulett ready to 


618 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[chap. 

give him his discharge. He found, however, only Sir 
Drew Drury, who thus accosted him — “ Young man, 
you had better return to your duty. Sir Amias is 
willing to overlook what passed this morning.'' 

“ I thank you, sir, but I am not aware of having 
done aught to need forgiveness,” said Humfrey. 

“ Come, come, my fair youth, stand not on these 
points. ’Tis true my good colleague hath an excess of 
zeal, and I could wish he could have found it in his 
heart to leave the poor lady these marks of dignity 
that hurt no one. I would have no hand in it, and I 
am glad thou wouldst not. He knoweth that he had 
no power to require such service of thee. He will 
say no more, and I trust that neither wilt thou ; for it 
would not be well to change warders at this time. 
Another might not be so acceptable to the poor lady, 
and I would fain save her all that I can.” 

Humfrey bowed, and thanked “ him of milder 
mood,” nor was any further notice taken of this hasty 
dismissal. 

When next he had to enter the Queen’s apartments, 
the absence of all the tokens of her royal rank was to 
him truly a shock, accustomed as he had been, from 
his earliest childhood, to connect them with her, and 
knowing what their removal signified. 

Mary, who was writing, looked up as, with cap in 
hand, he presented himself on one knee, his head bowed 
lower than ever before, perhaps to hide the tear that 
had sprung to his eye at sight of her pale, patient 
countenance. 

“ How now, sir ?” she said. “ This obeisance h 
out of place to one already dead in law. Don your 
bonnet. There is no queen here for an Englishman.” 

“ Ah ! madam, suffer me. My reverence cannot 


THE SENIENCE. 


519 


XL.] 

but be greater than ever,” faltered Humfrey from his 
very lieart, his words lost in the kiss he printed on 
the hand she granted him. 

Mary bent “her gray discrowned head,” crowned 
in his eyes as the Queen of Sorrows, and said to Marie 
de Courcelles, who stood behind her, “ Is it not true, 
nia mie, that our griefs have this make-weight, namely, 
that they prove to us whose are the souls whose 
generosity is above all price ! And what saith thy 
good father, my Humfrey ? ” • 

He had not ventured on bringing the letter into 
the apartments, but he repeated most of the substance 
of it, without, however, greatly raising the hopes of 
the Queen, though she was gratified that her cause 
was not neglected either by her son or by her brother- 
in-law. 

“ They, and above all my poor maid, will be com- 
forted to liave done their utmost,” she said ; “ but I 
scarcely care that they should prevail. As I have 
written to my cousin Elizabeth, I am beholden to 
her for ending my long captivity, and above all for 
conferring on me the blessings and glories of one who 
dies for her faith, all unworthy as I am !” and she 
clasped her hands, while a rapt expression came upon 
her countenance. 

Her chief desire seemed to be that neither Cicely 
nor her foster-father should run into danger on her 
account, and she much regretted that she had not been 
able to impress upon Humfrey messages to that effect 
befoie he wrote in answer to his father, sending his 
letter by Cavendish. 

“ Thou wilt not write again ?” she asked. 

“ I doubt its being safe,” said Humfrey. " I durst 
not speak openly even in '■he scroll I sent .yesterday.” 


520 


UNKNOWN TO HIrtTOKY. 


[chap. 

Then Mary recurred to the power which he possessed 
of visiting Sir Andrew Melville and the Almoner, 
the Abbe de Pi^aux, who were shut up in the Fetter- 
lock tower and court, and requested him to take a billet 
which she had written to the latter. The request came 

like a blow to the young man. “With permission ” 

he began. 

“I tell thee,” said Mary, “this concerns naught, 
but mine own soul. It is nothing to the State, but all 
and everything to me, a 'dying woman.” 

“ Ah, madam ! Let me but obtain consent.” 

“ What ! go to Paulett that he may have occasion 
to blaspheme my faith and insult me !” said the Queen, 
offended. 

“ I should go to Sir Drew Drury, who is of another 
mould,” said Humfrey 

“ But who dares not lift a finger to cross his fellow,” 
said Mary, leaning back resignedly. 

“ And this is the young gentleman’s love for your 
Grace !” exclaimed Jean Kennedy. 

“Kay, madam,” said Humfrey, stung to the quick, 
“ but I am sworn !” 

“Let him alone. Nurse Jeanie !” said Mary. “He 
is like the rest of the English. They know not how 
to distinguish between the spirit and the letter ! I 
understand it all, though I had thought for a moment 
that in him there was a love for me and mine that 
would perceive that I could ask nothing that could 
damage his honour or his good faith. I — who had 
almost a mother’s love and trust in him.” 

“ Madam,” cried Humfrey, “ you know I would lay 
down my life for you, but I cannot break my trust.” 

“ Your trust, fule laddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Kennedy. 
“ Aue wad think the Queen speired of ye to carry a 


THE SENTENCE. 


521 


xu] 

letter to Mendoza to burn and slay, instead of a bit 
scart of the pen to ask the good father for his prayers, 
or the like ! But you are all alike ; ye will not stir a 
hand to aid her poor soul.” 

“ Pardon me, madam,” entreated Humfrey. “ The 
matter is, not what the letter may bear, but how my oath 
binds me ! I may not be the bearer of aught in writing 
from this chamber. ’Twas the very reason I would 
not bring in my father’s letter. Madam, say but you 
pardon me.” 

" Of course I pardon you,” returned Mary coldiy. 
“ I have so much to pardon that I can well forgive the 
lukewarmness and precision that are so bred in your 
nature that you cannot help them. I pardon injuries, 
and I may well try to pardon disappointments. Fare 
you well, Mr. Talbot ; may your fidelity have its reward 
from Sir Amias'Paulett.” 

Humfrey was obliged to quit the apartment, cruelly 
wounded, sometimes wondering whether he had 
really acted on a harsh selfish punctilio in cutting off 
the dying woman from the consolations of religion, 
and thus taking part with the persecutors, while his 
heart bled for her. Sometimes it seemed to him as if 
he had been on the point of earning her consent to 
his marriage with her daughter, and had thrown it 
away, and at other moments a horror came over him 
lest he was being beguiled as poor Antony had been 
before him. And if he let his faith slip, how should he 
meet his father again ? Yet his affection for the 
Queen repelled this idea like a cruel injury, while, day 
by day, it was renewed pain and grief to be treated 
by her with the gentlest and most studied courtesy, 
but no longer as almost one of her own inner circle of 
friends and coiifidants. 


522 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

And as Sir Andrew Melville was in a few days 
more restored to her service, he was far less often 
required to hea messages, or do little services in the 
prison apartments, and he felt himself excluded, and 
cut off from the intimacy that had been very sweet, 
and even a little hopeful to him. 


HER ROYAL HIGHNESH 


523 


yii] 


CHAPTEE XLL 

HER ROYAL HIGHNESS. 

Cicely had been living in almost as much suspense in 
London as her mother at Fotheringhay. For greater 
security Mr. Talbot had kept her on board the Mastiff 
till he had seen M. d’ Aube pine Chateauneuf, and 
presented to him Queen Mary’s letter. The Ambas- 
sador, an exceedingly polished and graceful Frenchman, 
was greatly astonished, and at first incredulous ; but 
he could not but ac?ept the Queen’s letter as genuine, 
and he called into his counsels his Secretary De 
Salmonnet, an elderly man, whose wife, a Scotswoman 
by birth, preferred her husband’s society to the 
delights of Paris. She was a Hamilton who had been 
a jpensionnaire in the convent at Soissons, and she 
knew that it had been expected that an infant from 
Lochleven might be sent to the Abbess, but that it 
had never come, and that after many months of 
waiting, tidings had arrived that the vessel which 
carried the babe had been lost at sea. 

M, de Chateauneuf thereupon committed the in- 
vestigation to her and her husband. Eichard Talbot 
took them first to the rooms where Mrs. Barbara Curll 
had taken up her abode, so as to be near her husband, 
who was still a prisoner in Walsingham’s house. She 


524 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

fully confirmed all that Mr. Talbot said of the Queen’s 
complete acceptance of Cis as her daughter, and more- 
over consented to come with the Salmonnets and Mr. 
Talbot, to visit the young lady on board the Mastiff. 

Accordingly they went down the river together in Mr. 
Talbot’s boat, and found Cicely, well cloaked and mufiled, 
sitting under an awning, under the care of old Goatley, 
who treated her like a little queen, and was busy explain- 
ing to her all the different craft which filled the river. 

She sprang up with the utmost delight at the sight 
of Mrs. Curll, and threw herself into her arms. There 
was an interchange of inquiries and comments that — 
unpremeditated as they were — could not but convince 
the auditor of the terms on which the young lady had 
stood with Queen ]\Iary and her suite. 

Afterwards Cicely took the two ladies to her cabin, 
a tiny box, but not uncomfortable according to her 
habits, and there, on Barbara’s persuasion, she per- 
mitted Madame de Salmonnet to see the monograms on 
her shoulders. The lady went home convinced of her 
identity, and came again the next day with a gentle- 
man in slouched hat, mask, and cloak. 

As Cicely rose to receive him he uttered an exclama- 
tion of irrepressible astonishment, then added, “Your 
Highness will pardon me. Exactly thus did her royal 
mother stand when I took leave of her at Calais.’’ 

The Ambassador had thus been taken by storm, 
although the resemblance was more in figure and 
gesture than feature, but Mrs. Curll could aver that 
those who had seen Bothwell were at no loss to trace 
the derivation of the dark brows and somewhat homely 
features, in which the girl differed from the royal race 
of Scotland. 

What was to be done ? Queen Mary’s letter tc 


HER ROYAL HIGHNESS. 


525 


N-U] 

him begged him so far as was possible to giYe her 
French protection, and avoid compromising “ that ex- 
cellent Talbot,” and he thought it would be wisest for 
her to await the coming of the Envoy Extraordinary, 
M. ■>■.{), Pomponne Belli^vre, and be presented by him. 
In the meautime her remaining on board ship in this 
winter weather would be miserably uncomfortable, and 
Pichmond and Greenwich were so near that any inter- 
course with her w’ould be dangerous, especially if 
Langston was still in England. Lodgings or inns 
where a young lady from the country could safely be 
bestowed were not easily to be procured wdthout 
greater familiarity with the place than Mr. Talbot 
possessed, and he could as little think of placing her 
with Lady Talbot, whose gossiping tongue and shrewish 
temper were not for a moment to be trusted. Therefore 
M. de Chateauneuf s proposal that the young lady should 
become Madame de Salmonnet’s guest at the embassy 
was not unwelcome. The lady was elderly, Scottish, 
and, as ]\I. de Ch5,teauneuf with something of a 
shudder assured Mr. Talbot, “ most respectable.” And 
it was hoped that it would not be for long. So, 
having seen her safely made over to the lady’s care, 
liichard ventured for the first time to make his pre- 
sence in London known to his son, and to his kindred ; 
and he was the more glad to have her in these quarters 
because Diccon told him that there was no doubt that 
Langston was lurking about the town, and indeed he 
was convinced that he had recognised that spy entering 
Walsingham’s house in the dress of a scrivener. He 
would not alarm Cicely, but he bade her keep all 
her goods in a state ready for inunediate departure, in 
case it should be needful to leave London at once after 
seeing the Queen. 


526 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

The French Ambassador’s abode was an old con- 
vrentual building on the river side, consisting of a 
number of sets of separate chambers, like those of a 
college, opening on a quadrangle in the centre, and 
with one side occupied by the state apartments and 
chapel. This arrangement eminently suited the 
French suite, every one of whom liked to have his 
own little arrangements of cookery, and to look after 
his own marmite in his own way, all being alike 
horrified at the gross English diet and lack of vege- 
tables. Many tried experiments in the way of grow- 
ing salads in little gardens of their own, with little 
heed to the once beautiful green grass-plot which they 
broke up. 

Inside that gate it was like a new country, and as 
all the shrill thin intonations of the French rang in 
her ears. Cicely could hardly believe that she had — 
she said — only a brick wall between her and old 
England. 

M. de Salmonnet was unmistakably a Scot by 
descent, though he had never seen the land of his 
ancestors. His grandfather had been ennobled, but 
only belonged to the lesser order of the noblesse, being 
exempted from imposts, but not being above employ- 
ment, especially in diplomacy. He had acted as 
secretary, interpreter, and general factotum, to a whole 
succession of ambassadors, and thus his little loge, as 
he called it, had become something of a home. His 
wife had once or twice before had to take charge of 
young ladies, French or English, who were confided 
to the embassy, and she had a guest chamber for 
them, a small room, but with an oriel window over- 
hanging the Thames and letting in the southern sun, 
80 as almost to compensate for the bareness of the rest; 


HER ROYAL HIGHNESS. 


527 


xll] 

when; there was nothing but a square box-bed, a chest, 
and a few toilette essentials, to break upon the dulness 
of the dark wainscoted walls. Madame herself came 
to sleep with her guest, for lonely nights were regarded 
with dread in those times, and indeed she seemed tc 
regard it as her duty never to lose sight of her charge 
for a moment. 

Madame de Salmonnet’s proper bed-chamber was 
the only approach to this little room, but that mattered 
the less as it was also the parlour ! The bed, likewise 
a box, was in the far-off recesses, and the family were 
up and astir long before the November sun. Dressed 
Madame could scarcely be called — the costume in which 
she assisted Babette and queer wizened old Pierrot in 
doing the morning’s work, horrified Cicely, used as she 
was to Mistress Susan’s scrupulous neatness. Down-, 
stairs there was a sort of office room of Monsieur’s, 
where the family meals were taken, and behind it an 
exceedingly small kitchen, where Madame and Pierrot 
performed marvels of cookery, surpassing those of Queen 
Mary’s five cooks. 

Cicely longed to assist in them, and after a slight 
..lemur, she was permitted to do so, chiefly because her 
duenna could not otherwise watch her and the confec- 
tions at the same time. Cis could never make out whether 
it was as princess or simply as maiden that she was so 
closely watched, for Madame bristled and swelled like a 
mother cat about to spring at a strange dog, if any gentle- 
man of the suite showed symptoms of accosting her. 
Nay, when Mr. Talbot once brouglit Diccon in with him, 
and there was a greeting, which to Cicely’s mind was 
dismally cold and dry, the lady was so scandalised that 
Cicely was obliged formally to tell her that she would 
answer for it to the Queen. On Sunday, Mr. Talbot always 


528 


UNKNOWN TO HlSTOIlY. 


[chap, 

came to take her to church, and this was a terrible griev* 
ance to Madame, though it was to Cicely the one refresh- 
ment of the week. If it had been only the being out 
of hearing of her hostess’s incessant tongue, the walk 
would have been a refreshment. Madame de Salmonuet. 
liad been transported from home so young that she wjis 
far more French than Scottish ; she was a small woman 
full of activity and zeal of all kinds, though perhaps 
most of all for her pot au feu. She was busied about 
her domestic affairs morning, noon, and night, and never 
ceased chattering the whole time, till Cicely began to 
regard the sound like the clack of the mill at Bridge- 
field. Yet, talker as she was, she was a safe woman, 
and never had been known to betray secrets. Indeed, 
much more of her conversation consisted of speculations 
. on the tenderness of the poultry, or the freshness of the 
fish, than of anything that went much deeper. She 
did, however, spend much time in describing the habits 
and customs of the pensioners at Soissons ; the maigre 
food they had to eat ; their tiicks upon the elder and 
graver nuns, and a good deal besides that was amusing 
at first, but which became rather wearisome, and made 
Cicely wonder what either of her mothers would have 
thought of it. 

The excuse for all this was to enable the maiden to 
make her appearance before Queen Elizabeth as freshly 
Ijrought from Soissons by her mother’s danger. Mary 
herself had suggested this, as removing all danger from 
the Talbots, and as making it easier for the French 
Embassy to claim and protect Cis herself ; and M. le 
Chateauneuf had so far acquiesced as to desire Madame 
de Salmonnet to see whether the young lady could be 
prepared to assume the character before eyes that would 
not be over qualified to judge. Cis, however, had 


HEK EOYAL HIGHNESS. 


529 


xll] 

always been passive when the proposal was made, and 
the more she heard from Madame de Salmon net, the 
more averse she was to it. The only consideration 
that seemed to her in its favour was the avoidance of 
implicating her foster-father, but a Sunday morning 
sp;Lj with him removed the scruple. 

“ I know I cannot feign,” she said. “ They all used 
to laugh at me at Chartley for being too much of the 
downright mastiff to act a part.” 

“ 1 am right glad to hear it,” said Eicliard. 

“ Moreover,” added Cicely, “ if I did try to turn my 
words with the Scottish or Trench ring, I wot that the 
sight of the Queen’s Majesty and my anxiety would 
drive out from me all I should strive to remember, and 
I should falter and utter mere folly ; and if she saw 
1 was deceiving her, there would be no hope at all. 
Nay, how could I ask God Almighty to bless my doing 
with a he in my mouth ? ” 

“ There spake my Susan’s own maid,’’ said Eichard. 
“’Tis the joy of my heart that tliey have not been able 
to teach thee to lie with a good grace. Trust my 
word, my wench, truth is the only wisdom, and one 
would have thought they might have learnt it by this 
time.” 

“ I only doubted, lest it should be to your damage, 
dear fathi.r. Can they call it treason ?” 

“ I trow not, my child. The worst that could hap 
would be that I might be lodged in prison a while, or 
have to pay a fine ; and liefer, far liefer, would I under- 
go the like than that those lips of thine should learn 
guile. I say not that there is safety for any of us, 
least of all for thee, my poor maid, but the danger is 
tenfold increased by trying to deceive ; and, moreover, 
it ca,nnot be met with a good conscience.” 


630 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

“Moreover,” said Cicely, “I have pleadings and 
promises to make on my mother-queen’s behalf that 
would come strangely amiss if I had to feign that I 
had never seen her ! May I not seek the Queen at 
once, without waiting for this French gentleman ? 
Tlien would this weary, weary time be at an end ! 
Each time I hear a beU, or a cannon shot, I start and 
think. Oh ! has she signed the warrant ? Is it too 
late?” 

“ There is no fear of that,” said Eichard ; “ I shall 
know from Will Cavendish the instant aught is done, 
and through Diccon I could get thee brought to the 
Queen’s very chamber in time to plead. Meantime, 
the Queen is in many minds. She cannot bear to give 
up her kinswoman ; she sits apart and mutters, ‘ Aut 
fer aut feril and ‘ Ne feriare feri.' Her ladies say 
she tosses and sighs all night, and hath once or twice 
awoke shrieking that she was covered with blood. It 
is Burghley and Walsingham who are forcing this on, and 
not her free will. Strengthen but her better will, and let 
her feel herself secure, and she will spare, and gladly.” 

“ That do I hope to do,” said Cicely, encouraged. 

The poor girl had to endure many a vicissitude and 
heart-sinking before M. de Bellifevre appeared ; and 
when he did come, he was a disappointment. 

He was a most magnificent specimen of the mignons 
of Henri’s court. The Embassy rang with stories of 
the number of mails he had brought, of the milk baths 
he sent for, the gloves he slept in, the valets who 
tweaked out superfluous hairs from his eyebrows, the 
delicacies required for his little dogs. 

M. de Salmonnet reported that on hearing the story 
of “ Mademoiselle,” as Cicely was called in the Em- 
bassy, he had twirled the waxed ends of his moustaches 


XLI.] HER ROYAL HIGHNESS. 531 

into a 3 tirical twist, and observed, “That is well 
found, and may serve as a last resource.” 

He never would say that he disbelieved what he 
was told of her; and when presented to her, he be- 
haved with an exaggerated deference which angered 
her intensely, for it seemed to her mockery of her pre- 
tensions. Ho doubt his desire was that Mary’s life 
should be granted to the intercession of his king rathei 
than to any other consideration ; and therefore once, 
twice, thrice, he had interviews with Elizabeth, and 
still he would not take the anxious suppliant, who was 
in an agony at each disappointment, as she watched 
the gay barge float down the river, and who began to 
devise setting forth alone, to seek the Queen at 
Eichmond and end it all ! She would have done so, 
but that Diccon told her that since the alarm caused 
by Barnwell, it had become so much more difficult to 
approach the Queen that she would have no hope. 

But she was in a restless state that made Madame 
de Salmonnet’s chatter almost distracting, when at 
last, far on in January, M. de Salmonnet came in. 

“Well, mademoiselle, the moment is come. The 
passports are granted, but Monsieur the Ambassador 
Extraordinary has asked for a last private audience, 
and he prays your Highness to be ready to accompany 
him at nine of the clock to-morrow morning.” 

Cicely’s first thought was to send tidings to Mr. 
Talbot, and in this M. de Salmonnet assisted her, 
though his wife thought it very superfluous to drag in 
the great, dull, heavy, English sailor. The girl longed 
for a sight and speech of him all that evening in vain, 
though she was sure she saw the Mastiff’ s boat pass 
down the river, and most earnestly did she wish she 
could have h-^d her chamber to herself for the prayers 


532 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

and preparations, on which Madame’s tongue broke so 
intolerably that she felt as if she should ere long be 
wild and senseless, and unable to recollect anything. 

She had only a little peace when Madame rose 
early in the morning and left her, thinking her asleep, 
for a brief interval, which gave her time to rally her 
thoughts and commend herself to her only Guide. 

She let Madame dress her, as had been determined, 
in perfectly plain black, with a cap that would have 
suited “ a novice out of convent shade.” It was cer- 
tainly the most suitable garb for a petitioner for her 
mother’s life. In her hand she took the Queen’s letter, 
and the most essential proofs of her birth. She was 
cloaked and hooded over all as warmly as possible to 
encounter the cold of the river : and Madame de Sal- 
monnet, sighing deeply at the cold, arranged herself to 
chaperon her, and tried to make her fortify herself with 
food, but she was too tremulous to swallow anything 
but a little bread and wine. Poor child! She felt 
frightfully alone amongst all those foreign tongues, 
above all when the two ambassadors crossed the court 
to M. de Salmonnet’s little door. Bellievre, rolled up 
in splendid sables from head to foot, howed down to 
the ground before her, almost sweeping the pavement 
with his plume, and asked in his deferential voice of 
mockery if her Eoyal Highness would do him the 
honour of accepting his escort. 

Cicely bent her head and said in French, “ I thank 
you, sir,” giving him her hand ; and there was a grave 
dignity in the action that repressed him, so that he did 
not speak again as he led her to tlie barge, which was 
covered in at the stern so as to afford a shelter from the 
wind. 

Her quick eye detected the Mastiff's boat as she 


HER ROYAL HIGHNESS. 


533 


XLI.] 

was lianded down the stairs, and this was some relief, 
while she was placed in the seat of honour, with an 
ambassador on each side of her. 

“ May I ask,” demanded Belli^vre, waving a scented 
handkerchief, “ what her Highness is prepared to say, 
in case I have to confirm it ?” 

“ I thank your Excellency,” replied Cicely, “ but I 
mean to tell the simple truth ; and as your Excellency 
has had no previous knowledge of me, I do not see 
how you can confirm it.” 

The two gentlemen looked at one another, and 
Chateauneuf said, “ Do I understand her Eoyal High- 
ness that she does not come as the peTisionnaire from 
Soissons, as the Queen had recommended ?” 

“ No, sir,” said Cicely ; “ I have considered the 
matter, and I could not support the character. All 
that I ask of ybur Excellencies is to bring me into the 
presence of Queen Elizabeth. I will do the rest my- 
self, with the help of God.” 

" Perhaps she is right,” said the one ambassador ♦’O 
the other. " These English are incomprehensible I” 


634 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


[CBAI 


CHAPTER XLIL 

THE SUPPLICATION. 

In due time the boat drew up at the stairs leading to 
the palace of Richmond. Cicely, in the midst of her 
trepidation, perceived that Diccon was among the 
gentlemen pensioners who made a lane from the land- 
ing to receive them, as she was handed along by M. de 
Bellievre. In the hall there was a pause, during 
which the mufflings were thrown off, and Cicely 
appeared in her simple black, a great contrast to her 
cavalier, who was clad from neck to knee in pale pink 
satin, quilted, and with a pearl at each intersection, 
earrings in his ears, perfumed and long-fringed gloves 
in his hand — a perfect specimen of the foppery of the 
Court of France. However, he might have been in 
hodden gray without her perceiving it. She had the 
sensation of having plunged into deep, unknown waters, 
without rope or plank, and being absolutely forced to 
strike out for herself; yet the very urgency of the 
moment, acting on her high blood and recent training, 
made her, outwardly, perfectly self-possessed and calm. 
She walked along, holding her liead in the regal 
manner tliat was her inheritance, and was so utterly 
absorbed in the situation that she saw nothing, and 
thought only of the Queen. 


THE SUPPLICATION. 


535 


xlil] 

This was to be a private audience, and after a 
minute’s demur with the clerk of the chamber, when 
Chateauneuf made some explanation, a door was 
jpened, a curtain witlidrawn, and the two ambassadors 
and the young lady were admitted to Elizabeth’s 
closet, where she sat alone, in an arm-chair with a 
table before her. Cicely’s first glance at the Queen 
reminded her of the Countess, though the face was 
older, and had an intellect and a grandeur latent in 
it, such as Bess of Hardwicke had never possessed ; 
but it was haggard and worn, the eyelids red, either 
with weeping, or with sleeplessness, and there was an 
anxious look about the keen light hazel eyes which 
was sometimes almost pathetic, and gave Cicely hope. 
To the end of her days she never could recollect how 
the Queen was arrayed ; she saw nothing but the 
expression in 'those falcon eyes, and the strangely 
sensitive mouth, which bewrayed the shrewish nose 
and chin, and the equally inconsistent firmness of the 
jaw. 

The first glance Cicely encountered was one of 
utter amazement and wrath, as the Queen exclaimed, 
“ Whom have you brought hither. Messieurs ? ” 

Before either could reply, she, whom they had 
thought a raw, helpless girl, moved foiward, and kneel- 
ing before Elizabeth said, “ It is I, so please your 
Majesty, I, who have availed myself of the introduc- 
tion of their Excellencies to lay before your Majesty a 
letter from my mother, the Queen of Scots.” 

Queen Elizabeth made so vehement and incredulous 
an exclamation of amazement that Cicely was the 
more reminded of the Countess, and this perhaps 
made her task the easier, and besides, she was not an 
untrained rustic, but had really been accustomed to 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


53G 


[chap. 


familiar intercourse with a queen, who, captive as slie 
was, maintained full state and etiquette. 

She therefore made answer with dignity, “ If it will 
please your Majesty to look at this letter, you will see 
the proofs of what I say, and that I am indeed Bride 
Hepburn, the daughter of Queen Mary’s last marriage. 
I was born at Lochleven on the 20 th of February of 
the year of grace 1567,^ and thence secretly sent in 
the Bride of Buribar to be bred up in France. The 
ship was wrecked, and all lost on board, but I was, by 
the grace of God, picked up by a good and gallant 
gentleman of my Lord of Shrewsbury’s following. 
Master Eichard Talbot of Bridgefield, who brought me 
up as his own daughter, all unknowing whence I 
came or who I was, until three years ago, when one of 
the secret agents who had knowledge of the affairs of 
the Queen of Scots made known to her that I was the 
babe who had been embarked in the Bride of Dunbar” 
“ Verily, thou must be a bold wench to expect me 
to believe such a mere minstrel’s tale,” said Elizabeth. 

“ Nevertheless, madam, it is the simple truth, as 
you will see if you deign to open this packet.” 

“ And who or where is this same honourable gentle- 
man who brought you up — Eichard Talbot ? I have 
heard that name before 1 ” 

“ He is here, madam. He will confirm all I say.” 
The Queen touched a little bell, and ordered Master 
Talbot of Bridgefield to be brought to her, while, 
hastily casting her eyes on the credentials, she 
demanded of Chateauneuf, “Knew you aught of this, 
sk ?” 

know only what the Queen of Scotland has 
written and what this Monsieur Talbot has told me, 

^ 1568 according to our Calendar. 


THE SUPPLICATION. 


XLII.] 


6a7 


madam,” said CMteauneuf. "There can be no doubt 
that the Queen of Scotland has treated her as a 
daughter, and owns her for such in her letter to me, 
as well as to your Majesty.” 

"And the letters are no forgery?” 

" Mine is assuredly not, madam ; I know the 
private hand of the Queen of Scots too well to be 
deceived. Moreover, Madame Curll, the wife of the 
Secretary, and others, can speak to the manner in 
which this young lady was treated.” 

“ Openly treated as a daughter ! That passes, 
sir. My faithful subjects would never have left mo 
uninformed !” 

" So please your Majesty,” here the maiden ventured, 
" I have always borne the name of Cicely Talbot, and 
no one knows what is my real birth save those who 
were with my mother at Lochleven, excepting Mrs. 
Curll. The rest even of her own attendants only 
understood me to be a Scottish orphan. My true 
lineage should never have been known, were it not a 
daughter’s duty to plead for her mother.” 

By this time Mr. Talbot was at the door, and he 
was received by the Queen with, “ So ho ! Master Tal- 
bot, how is this ? You, that have been vaunted to us 
as the very pink of fidelity, working up a tale that 
smacks mightily of treason and leasing!” 

" The truth is oft stranger than any playwright 
can devise,” said Eichard, as he knelt. 

" If it be truth, the worse for you, sir,” said the 
Queen, hotly. " What colour can you give to thus 
hiding one who might, forsooth, claim royal blood, 
tainted though it be ?” 

“ Pardon me, your Grace. For many years I knew 
not who the babe was whom I had taken from the 


588 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CHAP 

wreck, and when the secret of her birth was discovered, 
I deemed it not mine own but that of the Queen of 
Scots.” 

“ A captive’s secrets are not her own, and are only 
kept by traitors,” said Elizabeth, severely. 

At this Cicely threw herself forward with glowing 
cheeks. “ Madam, madam, traitor never was named in 
the same breath with Master Talbot’s name before. If 
he kept the secret, it was out of pity, and knowing no 
hurt could come to your Majesty by it.” 

“ Thou hast a tongue, wench, be thou who thou 
mayst,” said Elizabeth sharply. “ Stand back, and let 
him tell his own tale.” 

Eichard very briefly related the history of the 
rescue of the infant, which he said he could confirm 
by the testimony of Goatley and of Heatherthwayte. 
He then explained how Langston had been present 
when she was brought home, and had afterwards made 
communications to the Queen of Scots that led to the 
girl, already in attendance on her, being claimed and 
recognised ; after which he confessed that he had not 
the heart to do what might separate the mother and 
daughter by declaring their relationship. Elizabeth 
meanwhile was evidently comparing his narrative with 
the letters of the Queen of Scots, asking searching 
questions here and there. 

She made a sound of perplexity and annoyance at 
the end, and said, “ This must be further inquired into.” 

Here Cicely, fearing an instant dismissal, clasped 
her hands, and on her knees exclaimed, “ Madam I it 
will not matter. Ho trouble shall ever be caused by 
my drop of royal blood ; no one shall ever even know 
that Bride of Scotland exists, save the few who now 
know it, and have kept the secret most faithfully. ] 


XLI1.J 


THE SUPPLICATION. 


539 


seek Qo state ; all I ask is my mother’s life. 0 
madam, would you but see her, and speak with her, you 
would know how far from her thoughts is any evil to 
your royal person !” 

“ Tush, wench ! we know better. Is this thy 
lesson ?” 

“None hath taught me any lesson, madam. I 
know what my mother’s enemies have, as they say, 
proved against her, and I know they say that while she; 
lives your Grace cannot be in security.” 

" That is what moves my people to demand her 
death,” said Elizabeth. 

“ It is not of your own free will, madam, nor of 
your own kind heart,” cried Cicely. “That I well know! 
And, madam, I will show you the way. Let but my 
mother be escorted to some convent abroad, in France 
or Austria, or knywhere beyond the reach of Spain, and 
her name should be hidden from everyone! None should 
know where to seek her. Not even the Abbess should 
know her name. She would be prisoned in a ceU, but she 
would be happy, for she would have life and the free 
exercise of her religion. No English Papist, no Leaguer, 
none should ever trace her, and she would disquiet you 
no more.” 

“ And who is to answer that, when once beyond 
English bounds, she should not stir up more trouble 
than ever ?” demanded Elizabeth, 

“ That do I,” said the girl. “ Here am I, Bride 
Hepbui'n, ready to live in your Majesty’s hands as a 
hostage, whom you might put to death at the first 
stirring on her behalf.” 

“ Silly maid, we have no love of putting folk to 
death,” said Elizabeth, rather hurt. “ That is only foi 
traitors, when they forfeit our mercy.” 


640 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CIIAP 

“ Tlien, 0 madam, madam, what has been done 
in her name cannot forfeit mercy for her ! She was 
shut up in prison ; I was witli her day and night, and 
I know she had naught to do with any evil pnixose 
towards your Majesty, Ah ! you do not believe me ! 
I know they have found her guilty, and that is not 
what I came to say,” she continued, getting bewildered 
in her earnestness for a moment. “ No. But, gracious 
Queen, you have spared her often ; I have heard her 
say that you had again and again saved her life from 
those who would fain have her blood.” 

“ It is true,” said Elizabeth, half softened. 

“ Save her then now, madam,” entreated the girl. 
“ Let her go beyond their reach, yet where none shall 
find her to use her name against you. Let me go to 
her at Fotheringhay with these terms. She will consent 
and bless and pray for you for ever ; and here am 1, 
ready to do what you will with me !” 

“To hang about Court, and be found secretly 
wedded to some base groom !” 

“No, madam. I give you my solemn word as a 
Queen’s daughter that I will never wed, save by youi' 
consent, if my mother’s life be granted. The King o! 
Scots knows not that there is such a being. He need 
never know it. I will thank and bless you whetlici 
you throw me into the Tower, or let me abide as the 
humblest of your serving -women, under the name 1 
have always borne. Cicely Talbot.” 

“ Foolish maid, thou mayest purpose as thou sayest. 
but I know what wenches are made of too well to 
trust thee.” 

“ Ah madam, pardon me, but you know not howi 
strong a maiden’s heart can be for a mother’s sake. 
Madam ! you have never seen my mother. If you 


XLII.j THE SUPPLICATIO.^. 541 

but knew her patience and her tenderness, you would 
know how not only I, but every man or woman in her 
train, would gladly lay down life and liberty for her, 
could we but break her bonds, and win her a shelter 
among those of her own faith.” 

“ Art a Papist ?” asked the Queen, observing the 
pronoun. 

“ Not so, an’t please your Majesty. This gentle- 
man bred me up in our own Church, nor would I 
leave it.” 

“ Strange — strange matters,” muttered Elizabeth, 
“ and they need to be duly considered.” 

“ I will then abide your Majesty’s pleasure,” said 
Cicely, “craving license that it may be at Eotheringhay 
with my mother. Then can I bear her the tidings, 
and she will write in full her consent to these terms. 

0 madam, I 'see mercy in your looks. Eeceive a 
daughter’s blessing and thanks !” 

“ Over fast, over fast, maiden. Who told thee that 

1 had consented ?” 

“ Your Majesty’s own countenance,” replied Cicely 
readily. “ I see pity in it, and the recollection that 
all posterity for evermore will speak of the clemency 
of Elizabeth as the crown of all her glories !” 

“ Child, child,” said the Queen, really moved, 
“ Heaven knows that I would gladly practise clemency 
if my people would suffer it, but they fear for my life, 
and still more for themselves, were I removed, nor can 
I blame them.” 

“Your Mejesty, I know that. But my mother 
would be dead to the world, leaving her rights solemnly 
made over to her son. None would know where to 
find her, and she would leave in your hands, and those 
of the Parliament, a resignation of all her claims.” 


542 UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. [UHAP. 

•’ And would she do this ? Am I to take it on thy 
word, girl ? ” 

“Your Majesty knows this ring, sent to her at 
Lochleven,” said Cicely, holding it up. “ It is the 
pledge that she binds herself to these conditions. Oh ! 
let me but bear them to her, and you shall have them 
signed and sealed, and your Majesty will know the 
sweet bliss of pardoning. May I carry the tidings to 
her ? I can go with this gentleman as Cis Talbot 
returning to her service.” 

Elizabeth bent her head as though assenting 
thoughtfully. 

“How shall I thank you, gracious Queen?” cried 
Cicely, joining hands in a transport, but Elizabeth 
sharply cut her short. 

“ What means the wench ? I have promised 
nothing. I have only said I will look into this 
strange story of thine, and consider this proposal — 
that is, if thy mother, as thou callest her, truly intend 
it — ay, and will keep to it.” 

“ That is all I could ask of your Majesty,” said 
Cicely. “ The next messenger after my return shall 
carry her full consent to these conditions, and there 
will I abide your pleasure until the time comes for her 
to be conducted to her convent, if not to see your face, 
which would be best of all. 0 madam, what thanks 
will be worthy of such a grace ?” 

“ Wait to see whether it is a grace, little cousin,” said 
Elizabeth, but with a kiss to the young round cheek, 
and a friendliness of tone that surprised all “Mes- 
sieurs,” she added to the ambassadors, “ you came, if I 
mistake not, to bring me this young demoiselle.” 

“ Who has, I hope, pleaded more effectually than 
1 ,” returned Bellii'vre. 


xlil] the supplication. 543 

“ I have made no promises, sir,” said the Queen, 
drawing herself up proudly. 

“ Still your Majesty forbids us not to hope,” said 
Ohateauneuf. 

Wherewith they found themselves dismissed. 

There was a great increase of genuine respect in 
the manner in which Belli^vre handed the young lady 
from the Queen’s chamber through the gallery and 
hall, and finally to the boat. No one spoke, for there 
were many standing around, but Cicely could read in 
a glance that passed between the Frenchmen that they 
were astonished at her success. Her own brain was 
in a whirl, her heart beating high ; she could hardly 
realise what had passed, but when again placed in the 
barge the first words she heard were from Belli^vre. 
“ Your Eoyal Highness will permit me to congratulate 
you.” At the same time she saw, to her great joy, 
that M. de Ohateauneuf had caused her foster-father 
to enter the barge with them. “ If the Queen of 
Scotland were close at hand, the game would be won,” 
said Belli^vre. 

“ Ah ! Milord Treasurer and M. le Secretaire are far 
too cunning to have let her be within reach,” said 
Ohateauneuf. 

“ Could we but have bound the Queen to anything,” 
added Bellievre. 

“ That she always knows how to avoid,” said the 
resident ambassador. 

" At least,” said Cicely, “ she has permitted that I 
should bear the terms to my mother at Fotheringhay.* 

“ That is true,” said Ohateauneuf, “ and in my 
opinion no time should be lost in so doing. I doubt,” 
he added, looking at Eichard, “ whetlier, now that her 
Highness’s exalted rank is known, the embassy will 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


644 


[chap. 


be permitted to remain a shelter to her, in case the 
Queen should demand her of me.” 

“ Your Excellency speaks my thought,” said 
Eichard. “ I am even disposed to believe that it 
would be wiser to begin our journey this very day.” 

“ I grieve for the apparent inhospitality and dis- 
respect to one whom I honour so highly,” said Chateau- 
neuf, “ but I verily believe it would be the wiser plan. 
Look you, sir, the enemies of the unfortunate Queen of 
Scotland have done all in their power to hinder my 
colleague from seeing the Queen, but to-day the Lord 
Treasurer is occupied at Westminster, and Llonsieur le 
Secretaire is sick. She sent for us in one of those wilful 
moods in which she chooses to assert herself without 
their knowledge, and she remains, as it were, stunned 
by the surprise, and touched by her Eoyal Highness’s 
pleading. But let these gentlemen discover what has 
passed, or let her recover and send for them, and bah ! 
they will inquire, and messengers will go forth at once 
to stop her Higlmess and yourself. All will be lost. 
But if you can actually be on the way to this castle 
before they hear of it — and it is possible you may have 
a full day in advance — they wdll be unable to hinder 
the conditions from being laid before the Queen of 
Scots, and we are vutnesses of wliat they were.” 

“ Oh, let us go ! let us go at once, dear sir,” en- 
treated Cicely. “I burn to carry my mother this 
hope.” 

It was not yet noon, so early had been the audience, 
and dark and short as were the days, it was quite 
possible to make some progress on the journey before 
night. Cicely had kept the necessaries for her journey 
ready, and so had ]\Ir. Talbot, even to the purchase of 
horses, which were in the Shrewsbury House stablea 


THE SUPPLICATION. 


545 


XLII.] 

The rest of the mails could be fetched by the Mastiff's 
crew, and brought to Hull under charge of Goatley. 
Madame de Salmonnet was a good deal scandalised 
at Son Altesse Eoyale going off with only a male escort, 
and to Cicely’s surprise, wept over her, and prayed aloud 
that she might have good success, and bring safety 
and deliverance to the good and persecuted Queen 
for whom she had attempted so much. 

“ Sir,” said Chateauneuf, as he stood beside Eichard, 
waiting till the girl’s preparations were over, “ if there 
could have been any doubts of the royal lineage of your 
charge, her demeanour to-day would have disproved them. 
She stood there speaking as an equal, all undaunted 
before that Queen before whom all tremble, save when 
they can cajole her.” 

“ She stood there in the strength of truth and inno- 
cence,” said Eichard. 

Whereat the Frenchman again looked perplexed at 
these incomprehensible Englisli. 

Cicely presently appeared. It was wonderful to 
see how that one effort had given her dignity and 
womanhood. She thanked the two ambassadors for 
the countenance they had given to her, and begged them 
to continue their exertions in her mother’s cause. 
“ And,” she added, “ I believe my mother has already 
requested of you to keep this matter a secret.” 

They bowed, and she added, “ You perceive, gentle- 
men, that the very conditions I have offered involve 
secrecy both as to my mother’s future abode and my 
existence. Therefore, I trust that you will not consider 
it inconsistent with your duty to the King of France 
to send no word of this.” 

Again they assured her of their secrecy, and the 
promise was so far kept that the story was reserved for 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


546 


[chap 


the private ear of Henri III. on Bellievre’s return, 
and never put into the despatches. 

Two days later, Cicely enjoyed some of the happiest 
hours of her life. She stood by the bed where her 
mother was lying, and was greeted with the cry, “ My 
child, my child ! I thought I never should see thee 
more. Domine, nunc dimittis!" 

“Nay, dearest mother, but I trust she will show 
mercy. I bring you conditions.” 

Mary laid her head on her daughter’s shoulder and 
listened. It might be that she had too much experi- 
ence of Elizabeth’s vacillations to entertain much hope 
of her being allowed to retire beyond her grasp into a 
foreign convent, and she declared that she could not 
endure that her beloved, devoted child should wear 
away her life under Elizabeth’s jealous eye ; but Cis 
put this aside, saying with a smile, “ I think she will 
not be hard with me. She will be no worse than 
my Lady Countess, and I shall have a secret of joy 
within me in thinking of you resting among the good 
nuns.” 

And Mary caught hope from the anticipations she 
would not damp, and gave herself to the description of 
the peaceful cloister life, reviewing in turn the nunneries 
she had heard described, and talking over their rules. 
There would indeed be as little liberty as here, but she 
would live in the midst of prayer and praise, and be at 
rest from the plots and plans, the hopes and fears, of 
her long captivity, and be at leisure for penitence. 
“ For, ah ! my child, guiltless though I be of much that 
is laid to my charge, thy mother is a sinful woman, all 
unworthy of what her brave and innocent daughter has 
dared and done for her.” 

Almost equally precious with that mother’s greeting 


THE SUPPLICATION. 


547 


xlil] 

was the grave congratulating look of approval which 
Cicely met in Humfrey’s eyes when he had heard all 
from his father. He could exult in her, even while he 
thought sadly of the future which she had so bravely 
risked, watching over her from a distance in his silent, 
self-restrained, unselfish devotion. 

The Queen’s coldness towards Humfrey had mean- 
time diminished daily, though he could not guess 
whether she really viewed his course as the right one, or 
whether she forgave this as well as all other injuries 
in the calm gentle state into which she had come, not 
greatly moved by hope or fear, content alike to live 
or die. 

Eichard, in much anxiety, was to remain another 
day or two at Fotheringhay, on the plea of his wearied 
horses and of the Sunday rest. 

Meantime 'Mary diligently wrote the conditions, 
but perhaps more to satisfy her daughter than with 
much hope of their acceptance. 


548 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CHAP. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 

THE WARRANT. 

“ Yea, madam, they are gone ! They stole away at 
once, and are far on the way to Eotheringhay, with 
these same conditions.” So spoke Davison, under- 
secretary, Walsingham being still indisposed. 

“ And therefore will I see whether the Queen of 
Scots will ratify them, ere I go farther in the matter,” 
returned Elizabeth. 

“ She will ratify them without question,” said the 
Secretary, ironically, “seeing that to escape into the 
hands of one of your Majesty’s enemies is just what 
she desires.” 

“ She leaves her daughter as a pledge.” 

“ Yea, a piece of tinsel to delude your Majesty.” 

Elizabeth swore an oath that there was truth in 
every word and gesture of the maiden. 

“ The poor wench may believe all she said herself,” 
said Davison. “ Nay, she is as much deluded as the 
rest, and so is that honest, dull-pated sailor, Talbot. If 
your Majesty will permit me to call in a fellow I have 
here, I can make all plain.” 

“ Who is he ? You know I cannot abide those foul 
carrion rascals you make use of,” said Elizabeth, with 
an air of disgust 


XLIII.J THE WAEKANT. 549 

“ This man is gentleman born. Villain he may be, 
but there is naught to offend your Majesty in him. 
He is one Langston, a kinsman of this Talbot’s ; and 
having once been a Papist, but now having seen the 
erroi of his ways, he did good service in the unwinding 
of the late horrible plot.” 

“ Well, if no other way will serve you but I must 
hear the fellow, have him in.” 

A neatly-dressed, small, elderly man, entirely arrayed 
in black, was called in, and knelt most humbly before 
the Queen. Being bidden to tell what he knew re- 
specting the lady who had appeared before the Queen 
the day before, calling herself Bride Hepburn, he re- 
turned for answer that he believed it to be verily her 
name, but that she was the daughter of a man who had 
fled to France, ana oecome an archer of the Scottish guard. 

He told hov^ he had been at Hull when the infant 
had been saved from the wreck, and brought home to 
Mistress Susan Talbot, who left the place the next day, 
and had, he understood, bred up the child as her own. 
He himself, being then, as he confessed, led astray by 
the delusions of Popery, had much commerce with the 
Queen’s party, and had learnt from some of the garrison 
of Dunfermline that the child on board the lost ship 
was the offspring of this same Hepburn, and of one of 
Queen Mary’s many namesake kindred, who had died 
in childbirth at Lochleven. And now Langston pro- 
fessed bitterly to regret what he had done when, in 
his disguise at Buxton, he had made known to some 
of Mary’s suite that the supposed Cicely Talbot was of 
their country and kindred. She had been immediately 
made a great favourite by the Queen of Scots, and the 
attendants all knew who she really was, though she 
still went by the name of Talbot. He imagined ^Jiat 


550 UNKNOWN TO HISTOR7. [CHAP. 

the Queen of Scots, whose charms were not so im- 
perishable as those which dazzled his eyes at this 
moment, wanted a fresh bait for her victims, since she 
herself was growing old, and thus had actually suc- 
c.ieded in binding Babington to her service, though 
even then the girl was puffed up with notions of her 
own importance and had flouted him. And now, all 
other hope having vanished. Queen Mary’s last and 
ablest resource had been to possess the poor maiden 
with an idea of being actually her own child, and then 
to work on her filial obedience to offer herself as a 
hostage, whom ]\Iary herself could without scruple 
leave to her fate, so soon as she was ready to head an 
army of invaders, 

Davison further added that the Secretary Nau could 
corroborate that Bride Hepburn was known to the suite 
as a kinswoman of the Queen, and that Mr, Cavendish, 
clerk to Sir Francis Walsingham, knew that Babington 
had been suitor to the young lady, and had crossed 
swords with young Talbot on her account, 

Elizabeth listened, and made no comment at the 
time, save that she sharply questioned Langston ; but 
his tale was perfectly coherent, and as it threw the 
onus of the deception entirely on Mary, it did not 
conflict either with the sincerity evident in both Cicely 
and her foster-father, or with the credentials supplied 
by the Queen of Scots, Of the ciphered letter, and of 
the monograms, Elizabeth had never heard, though, if 
she had asked for further proof, they would have been 
brought forward. 

She heard all, dismissed Langston, and with some 
petulance bade Davison likewise begone, being aware 
that her ministers meant her to draw the moral that 
she had involved herself in difficulties by holding a 


'CLIII.] 


THE WARRANT. 


551 


private audience of the French Ambassadors without 
their knowledge or presence. It may be that the very 
sense of having been touched exasperated her the more. 
She paced up and down the room restlessly, and her 
ladies heard her muttering — “That she should cheat 
me thus ! I have pitied her often ; I will pity her no 
more ! To breed up that poor child to be palmed on 
me ! I will make an end of it ; I can endure this no 
longer ! These tossings to and fro are more than I 
can bear, and all for one who is false, false, false, false ! 
My brain wiU bear no more. Hap what hap, an end 
must be made of it. She or I, she or I must die ; and 
which is best for England and the faith ? That girl had 
well-nigh made me pity her, and it was all a vile cheat !” 

Thus it was that Elizabeth sent for Davison, and 
bade him bring the warrant with him. 

And thus it was that in the midst of dinner in the 
hall, on the Sunday, the 5th of February, the meiiU of 
the Castle were startled by the arrival of Mr. Beale, 
the Clerk of the Council, always a bird of sinister 
omen, and accompanied by a still more alarming figure, 
a strong burly man clad in black velvet from head to 
foot. Every one knew who he was, and a thriU of 
dismay, that what had been so long expected had come 
at last, went through all who saw him pass through 
the hall. Sir Amias was suriimoned from table, and 
remained in conference with the two arrivals all through 
evening chapel time — an event in itself extraordinary 
enough to excite general anxiety. It was Humfrey’s 
turi\ to be on guard, and he had not long taken his 
station before he was called into the Queen’s apart- 
ments, where she sat at the foot of her bed, in a large 
chair with a small table before her. No one was with 
her but her two meJiciners, Bourgoin and Gorion. 


552 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[CHAP, 

“ Here,” she said, “ is tlie list our good Doctor has 
writ of the herbs he requires for my threatened attack 
of rheumatism.”. 

“ I will endeavour, with Sir Amias’s permission, to 
seek them in the park,” said Humfrey, 

“ But tell me,” said Mary, fixing her clear eyes 
upon him, “ tell me truly. Is there not a surer and 
more lasting cure for all my ills in preparation ? Who 
was it who arrived to-night?” 

“ Madame,” said Humfrey, bowing his head low as 
he knelt on one knee, “ it was Mr. Beale.” 

“Ay, and who besides ?” 

“Madam, I heard no name, but” — as she waited 
for him to speak further, he uttered in a choked voice 
— “ it was one clad in black.” 

“ I perceive,” said Mary, looking up with a smile. 
“ A more effectual Doctor than you, my good Bourgoin. 
I thank my God and my cousin Elizabeth for giving 
me the martyr’s hope at the close of the most mournful 
life that ever woman lived. Hay, leave me not as 
yet, good Humfrey. I have somewhat to say unto 
thee. I have a charge for thee.” Something in her 
tone led him to look up earnestly in her face. “ Thou 
lovest my child, I think,” she added. 

The young man’s voice was scarcely heard, and he 
only said, “ Yea, madam but there was an intensity 
in the tone and eyes which went to her heart. 

“ Thou dost not speak, but thou canst do. Wilt 
thou take her, Humfrey, and with her, all the inherit- 
ance of peril and sorrow that dogs our unhappy race ?” 

“ Oh ” — and there was a mighty sob that almost 
cut off his voice — “ My life is already hers, and would 
be spent in her service wherever, whatever she was.” 

“ I guessed it,” said the Queen, letting her hand rest 


miL] THE WARRANT. 553 

on his shoulder. “ And for her thou wilt endure, if 
needful, suspicion, danger, exile ?” 

“ They will be welcome, so I may shield her.” 

" I trust thee,” she said, and she took his firm 
strong hand into her own white wasted one. “ But will 
thy father consent ? Thou art his eldest son and heir.” 

“ He loves her like his own daughter. My brother 
ma} have the lands.” 

“ ’Tis strange,” said Mary, “ that in wedding a 
princess, ’tis no crown, no kingdom, that is set before 
thee, only the loss of thine own inheritance. For now 
that the poor child has made herself known to Elizabeth, 
there will be no safety for her between these seas. I 
have considered it well. I had thought of sending 
her abroad with my French servants, and making her 
known to my Ijsindred there. That would have been 
well if she could have accepted the true faith, or if — 
if her heart had not been thine ; but to have sent her 
as she is would only expose her to persecution, and 
she hath not the mounting spirit that would cast aside 
love for the sake of rising. She lived too long with 
thy mother to be aught save a homely Cis. I would 
have made a princess of her, but it passes my powers. 
Nay, the question is, whether it may yet be possible 
to prevent the Queen from laying hands on her.” 

“My father is still here,” said Humfrey, “and I 
deem not that any orders have come respecting her. 
Might not he crave permission to take her home, that 
is, if she will leave your Grace ?” 

“ I will lay my commands on her ! It is well 
thought of,” said the Queen. “How soon canst thou 
have speech with him ?” 

“ He is very like to come to my post ” said Humfrey, 
“ and then we can walk the gallery and talk unheard.” 


654 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 

“ It is well. Let him make his demand, and I 
will have her ready to depart as early as may be 
to-morrow morn. Bourgoin, I would ask thee to call 
the maiden hither.” 

Cicely appeared from the apartment where she had 
been sitting with the other ladies. 

“ Child,” said the Queen, as she came in, “ is thy 
mind set on wedding an archduke ? ” 

“ Marriage is not for me, madam,” said Cicely, 
perplexed and shaken by this strange address and by 
Humfrey’s presence. 

“ Nay, didst not once tell me of a betrothal now 
many years ago ? What wouldst say if thine own 
mother were to ratify it ?” 

“ Ah ! madam,” said Cicely, blushing crimson how- 
ever, “ but I pledged myself never to wed save with 
Queen Elizabeth’s consent.” 

“ On one condition,” said the Queen. “ But if that 
condition w'ere not observed by the other party ” 

“How — what, mother!” exclaimed Cicely, with a 
scream. “ There is no fear — Humfrey, have you 
heard aught ? ” 

“Nothing is certain,” said Mary, calmly. “I ask 
thee not to break thy word. I ask thee, if thou wert 
free to marry, if thou wouldst be an Austrian or Lor- 
raine duchess, or content thee with an honest English 
youth whose plighted word is more precious to him 
than gold.” 

mother, how can you ask?” said Cicely, di op- 
ping down, and hiding her face in the Queen’s lap. 

“ Then, Humfrey Talbot, I give her to thee, my 
child, my Bride of Scotland. Thou wilt guard her, 
and shield her, and for thine own sake as well as hers, 
pave her from the wrath and jealousy of Elizabeth. — 


THE WARRANT. 


555 


XLIU ] 

Hark, hark ! Hise, my child. They are presentiug 
arms. We shall have Paulett in anon to convey my 
rere-supper.” 

They had only just time to compose themselves 
before Paulett came in, looking, as they all thought, 
grimmer and more starched than ever, and not well 
pleased to find Humfrey there, but the Queen was 
equal to the occasion. 

“ Here is Dr. Bourgoin’s list of the herbs that he 
needs to ease my aches,” she said. “ Master Talbot is 
so good as to say that, being properly instructed, he 
will go in search of them.” 

“ They will not be needed,” said Paulett, but he 
spoke no farther to the Queen. Outside, however, he 
said to Humfrey, “Young man, you do not well to 
waste the Sabbath evening in converse with that 
blinded woman;” and meeting Mr. Talbot himself on 
the stair, he said, “You are going in quest of your 
son, sir. You would do wisely to admonish him that 
he will bring himself into suspicion, if not worse, by 
loitering amid the snares and wiles of the woman 
whom wrath is even now overtaking.” 

Richard found his son pacing the gallery, almost 
choked with agitation, and with the endeavour to con- 
ceal it from the two stolid, heavy yeomen who dozed 
behind the screen. Not till he had reached the extreme 
end did Humfrey master his voice enough to utter in 
his father’s ear, “ She has given lier to me !” 

Richard could not answer for a moment, then he 
said, “I fear me it will be thy ruin, Humfrey.” 

“ Not ruin in love or faithfulness,” said the youth. 
“ Father, you know I should everywhere have followed 
her and watched over her, even to the death, even if 
she could never have been mine.” 


556 


UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. 


[chap. 


“ I trow thou wouldst,” said Richard. 

“Nor would you have it otherwise — your child, 
your only daughter, to be left unguarded.” 

“Nay, I know not that I would,” said Richard. 
“ I cannot but care for the poor maid like mine own, 
and I would not have thee less true-hearted, Humfrey 
even though it cost thee thine home, and us our 
eldest son.” 

“ You have Diccon and Ned,” said Humfrey. And 
then he told what had passed, and his father observed 
that Beale had evidently no knowledge of Cicely’s 
conference with the Queen, and apparently no orders 
to seize her. It had oozed out that a commission had 
been sent to five noblemen to come and superintend 
the execution, since Sir Amias Paulett had again 
refused to let it take place without witnesses, and 
Richard undertook to apply at once to Sir Amias for 
permission to remove his daughter, on the ground of 
saving her tender youth from the shock. 

“ Then,” said he, “ I will leave a token at Notting- 
ham where I have taken her; whether home or at 
once to Hull. If I leave Brown Roundle at the inn 
for thee, then come home ; but if it be White Blossom, 
then come to Hull. It will be best that thou dost not 
know while here, and I cannot go direct to Hull, 
because the fens at this season may not be fit for 
riding. Heatherthwayte will need no proofs to con- 
vince him that she is not thy sister, and can wed you 
at once, and you will also be able to embark in case 
there be any endeavour to arrest her.” 

“ Taking service in Holland,” said Humfrey, “ until 
there may be safety in returning to England.” 

Richard sighed. The risk and sacrifice were great, 
and it was to him like the loss of two children, but 


XLin.] THE WARRANT. 557 

the die waji cast ; Humfrey never could be other than 
Cicely’s devoted champion and guardian, and it was 
better tliat it should be as her husband. So he re- 
paired to Sir Amias, and told him that he desired 
not to expose his daughter’s tender years and feeble 
spirits to the sight of the Queen’s death, and claimed 
]>ermission to take her away with him the next day, 
saying that the permission of the Queen had already 
been granted through his son, whom he would gladly 
also take with him. 

Paulett hemmed and hawed. He thought it a 
great error in Mr. Talbot to avoid letting his daughter 
be edified by a spectacle that might go far to moderate 
the contagion of intercourse with so obstinate a Papist 
and deceiver. Being of pitiless mould himself, he 
was incapable 'of appreciating Eichard’s observation 
that compassion would only increase her devotion to 
the unfortunate lady. He would not, or could not, 
part with Humfrey. He said that there would be 
such a turmoil and concourse that the services of the 
captain of his yeomen would be indispensable, but 
that he himself, and all the rest, would be free on the 
Thursday at latest. 

Mr. Talbot’s desire to be away was a surprise to 
him, for he was in difficulties how, even in that 
enormous hall, to dispose of all who claimed by right 
or by favour to witness what he called the tardy 
fulfilment of judgment. Yet though he thought it a 
weakness, he did not refuse, and ere night Mr. Talbot 
was able to send formal word that the horses would 
be ready for Mistress Cicely at break of day the next 
morning. 

The message was transmitted through the ladies as 
the Queen sat writing at her table, and she at once 


558 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

gave orders to Elizabeth Curll to prepare the cloak ba§ 
with necessaries for the journey. 

Cicely cried out, “ 0 madam my mother, do not 
send me from you!” 

“ There is no help for it, little one. It is the only 
hope of safety or happiness for thee.” 

“ But I pledged myself to await Queen Elizabeth’s 
reply here 1” 

“ She has replied,” said Mary. 

“How?” cried Cicely. “ Methought your letter 
confirming mine offers had not yet been sent.” 

“ It hath not, but she hath made known to me that 
she rejects thy terms, my poor maid.” 

“Is there then no hope ?” said the girl, under her 
breath, which came short with dismay. 

“ Hope ! yea,” said IMary, with a ray of brightness 
on her face, “ but not earthly hope. That is over, and 
I am more at rest and peace than I can remember to 
have been since I was a babe at my mother’s knee. 
But, little one, I must preserve thee for thine Humfrey 
and for happiness, and so thou must be gone ere the 
hounds be on thy track.” 

.“ Never, mother, I cannot leave you. You bid no one 
else to go 1” said Cis, clinging to her with a face bathed 
in tears. 

“ No one else is imperilled by remaining as thy 
bold venture has imperilled thee, my sweet maid. 
Think, child, how fears for thee would disturb my 
spirit, when I would faiu commune only with Heaven. 
Seest thou not that to lose thy dear presence for the 
few days left to me will be far better for me than to 
be rent with anxiety for thee, and it may be to see 
thee snatched from me by these stern, harsh men?” 

“ To quit you now 1 It is unnatural 1 I cannot.” 


XLiii.] the warrant. 559 

" You will go, child. As Queen and as mother alike, 
I lay my commands on you. Let not the last, almost 
the only commands I ever gave thee be transgressed, 
and waste not these last hours in a vain strife.” 

She spoke with an authority against which Cis had 
no appeal, save by holding her hand tight and covering 
it with kisses and tears. Mary presently released her 
hand and went on writing, giving her a little time to 
restrain her agony of bitter weeping. The first words 
spoken were, “ I shall not name thee in my will, nor 
recommend thee to thy brother. It would only bring on 
thee suspicion and danger. Here, however, is a letter 
giving full evidence of thy birth, and mentioning the 
various witnesses who can attest it. I shall leave the 
like with Melville, but it will be for thy happiness and 
safety if it ne^ver see the light. Should thy brother 
die without heirs, then it might be thy duty to come 
forward and stretch out thy hand for these two crowns, 
which have more thorns than jewels in them. Alas ! 
would that I could dare to hope they might be ex- 
changed for a crown of stars ! But lie down on the 
bed, my bairnie. I have much still to do, and thou 
hast a long journey before thee.” 

Cicely would fain have resisted, but was forced to 
Dbey, though protesting that she should not sleep ; 
ind she lay awake for a long time watching the Queen 
writing, until unawares slumber overpo wei e 1 her eyes. 
When she awoke, the Queen was standing over her 
saying, “ It is time thou wert astir, little one !” 

“Oh! and have I lost all these hours of you?” 
cried Cicely, as her senses awoke to the remembrance 
of the situation of affairs. “ Mother, why did you not 
let me watch with you ?” 

Mary only smiled and kissed her brow. The time 


560 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [cHAP. 

went by in the preparations, in all of which the Queea 
took an active part. Her money and jewels had 
been restored to her by Elizabeth’s orders during hei 
daughter’s absence, and she had put twenty gold pieces 
in the silken and pearl purse which she always used. 

More I may not give thee,” she said. “ I know not 
whether I shall be able to give my poor faithful ser- 
vants enough to carry them to their homes. This thou 
must have to provide thee. And for my jewels, they 
should be all thine by right, but the more valuable 
ones, which bear tokens, might only bring thee under 
suspicion, poor child.” 

She wished Cicely to choose among them, but the 
poor girl had no heart for choice, and the Queen herself 
put in her hand a small case containing a few which 
were unobtrusive, yet well known to her, and among 
them a ring with the Hepburn arms, given by Both- 
weU. She also showed her a gold chain which she 
meant to give to Humfrey. In this manner time 
passed, till a message came in that Master Eichard 
Talbot was ready. 

“Who brought it?” asked the Queen, and when 
she heard that it was Humfrey himself who was at the 
door, she bade him be called in. 

“ Children,” she said, “ we were interrupted last 
night. Let me see you give your betrothal kiss, and 
bless you.” 

“ One word, my mother,” said Cicely. “ Humfrey 
will not bear me ill-will if I say that while there can 
still be any hope that Queen Elizabeth wiE accept me 
for her prisoner in your stead, I neither can nor ought 
to wed him.” 

“ Thou mayst safely accept the condition, my son»’ 
said Mary. 


THE WARRANT. 


661 


xliil] 

“ Then if these messengers should come to conduct 
my mother abroad, and to take me as her hostage, 
Humfrey will know where to find me.” 

“Yea, thou art a good child to the last, my little 
one,” said Mary. 

“ You promise, Humfrey ?” said Cicely. 

“ I do,” he said, knowing as well as the Queen how 
little chance there was that he would be called on to 
fulfil it, but feeling that the agony of the parting was 
thus in some degree softened to Cicely. 

Mary gave the betrothal ring to Humfrey, and she 
laid her hands on their clasped ones, “ My daughter 
and my son,” she said, “ I leave you my blessing. If 
filial love and unshaken truth can bring down blessings 
from above, they will be yours. Think of your mother 
in times to come as one who hath erred, but suffered 
and repented. ' If your Church permits you, pray often 
for her. Eemember, when you hear her blamed, that 
in the glare of courts, she had none to breed her up in 
godly fear and simple truth like your good mother at 
Bridgefield, but that she learnt to think what you view 
in the light of deadly sin as the mere lawful instru- 
ments of government, above all for the weaker. Con- 
demn her not utterly, but pray, pray with all your 
hearts that her God and Saviour will accept her peni- 
tence, and unite her sufferings with those of her Lord, 
since He has done her the grace of letting her die in 
part for His Church. Now,” she added, kissing each 
brow, and then holding her daughter in her embrace, 
“ take her away, Humfrey, and let me turn my soul 
from all earthly loves and cares 1” 


662 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. 


[chap. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

ON THE HUMBER. 

Master Talbot had done considerately in arranging 
that Cicely should at least begin her journey on a 
pillion behind himself, for her anguish of suppressed 
weeping unfitted her to guide a horse, and would have 
attracted the attention of any serving -man behind 
whom he could have placed her, whereas she could lay 
her head against his shoulder, and feel a kind of 
dreary repose there. 

He would have gone by the more direct way to Hull, 
through Lincoln, but that he feared that February Fill- 
dyke would have rendered the fens impassable, so he 
directed his course more to the north-west. Cicely was 
silent, crushed, hut more capable of riding than of 
anything else ; in fact, the air and motion seemed to 
give her a certain relief. 

He meant to halt for the night at a large inn at 
Nottingham. There was much stir in the court, and 
it seemed to he full of the train of some great noble. 
Richard knew not whether to be glad or sorry when 
he perceived the Shrewsbury colours and the silv(n 
mastiff badge, and was greeted by a cry of “ Master 
Richard of Bridgefield ! ” Two or three retainers of 
higher degree came round him as he rode into the 


XLIV.] ON THE HUMBER. 563 

yard, and, while demanding his news, communicated 
their own, that my Lord was on his way to Fotheringhay 
to preside at the execution of the Queen of Scots. 

He could feel Cicely’s shudder as he lifted her off 
her horse, and he replied repressively, “ I am bringing 
my daughter from thence.” 

“ Come in and see my Lord,” said the gentleman. 
“ He is a woeful man at the work that is put on him.” 

Lord Shrewsbury did indeed look sad, almost 
broken, as he held out his hand to Eichard, and said, 
“ This is a piteous errand, cousin, on which I am 
bound. And thou, my young kinswoman, thou didst 
not succeed with her Majesty !” 

“ She is sick with grief and weariness,” said 
Eichard. “ I would fain take her to her chamber.” 

The evident intimacy of the new-comers with so 
great a personage as my Lord procured for them better 
accommodation than they might otherwise have had, 
and Eichard obtained for Cicely a tiny closet within 
the room where he was himself to sleep. He even 
contrived that she should be served alone, partly by 
himself, partly by the hostess, a kind motherly woman, 
to whom he committed her, while he supped with the 
Earl, and was afterwards called into his sleeping 
chamber to tell him of his endeavours at treating with 
Lord and Lady Talbot, and also to hear his lamenta- 
tions over the business he had been sent upon. He 
had actually offered to make over his office as Earl 
Marshal to Burghley for the nonce, but as he said, “ that 
of all the nobles in England, such work should fall to 
the lot of him, who had been for fourteen years the 
poor lady’s host, and knew her admirable patience and 
sweet conditions, was truly hard.” 

Moreover, he was joined in the commission with 


564 UNKNOWN TO HTSTOKY. [CHAF 

the Earl of Kent, a sour Puritan, who would rejoice in 
making her drink to the dregs of the cup of bitterness I 
He was sick at heart with the thought. Eichard 
represented that he would, at least, be able to give 
what comfort could be derived from mildness and 
compassion. 

“ Not I, not I !” said the poor man, always weak. 
“ Not with those harsh yoke-fellows Kent and Paulett 
to drive me on, and that viper Beale to report to the 
Privy Council any strain of mercy as mere treason 
What can I do ?” 

“ You would do much, my Lord, if you would move 
them to restore — for these last hours — to her those 
faithful servants, Melville and De Pr^aux, whom Paulett 
hath seen fit to seclude from her. It is rank cruelty 
to let her die without the sacraments of her Church, 
when her conscience will not let her accept ours.” 

“ It is true, Richard, over true. I will do what I 
can, but I doubt me whether I shall prevail, where 
Paulett looks on a Mass as mere idolatry, and wiU not 
brook that it should be offered in his house. But 
come you back with me, kinsman. We will send old 
Master Purvis to take your daughter safely home.” 

Richard of course refused, and at the same time, 
thinking an explanation necessary and due to the Earl, 
disclosed to him that Cicely was no child of his, but a 
near kinswoman of the Scottish Queen, whom it was 
desirable to place out of Queen Elizabeth’s reach 
the present, adding that there had been love passages 
between her and his son Humfrey, who intended to 
wed her and see some foreign service. Lord Shrews- 
bury showed at first some offence at having been kept 
in ignorance all these years of such a fact, and 
wondered what his Countess would say, marvelled too 


XLIV.] ON THE HUMBER. 565 

that his cousin should consent to his son’s throwing 
himself away on a mere stranger, of perilous connection, 
and going off to foreign wars ; but the good nobleman 
was a placable man, and always considerably influenced 
by the person who addressed him, and he ended by 
placing the Mastiff at Eichard’» disposal to take the 
young people to Scotland or Holland, or wherever they 
might wish to go. 

This decided Mr. Talbot on making at once for 
the seaport ; and accordingly he left behind him the 
horse, which was to serve as a token to his son that 
such was his course. Cicely had been worn out 
with her day’s journey, and slept late and sound, so 
that she was not ready to leave her chamber till the 
Earl and his retinue were gone, and thus she was 
spared actual contact with him who was to doom her 
mother, and see that doom carried out. She was 
recruited by rest, and more ready to talk than on the 
previous day, but she was greatly disappointed to find 
that she might not be taken to Bridgefield. 

“ If I could only be with Mother Susan for one 
hour,” she sighed. 

“Would that thou couldst, my poor maid,” said 
Eichard. “ The mother hath the trick of comfort.” 

“ ’Twas not comfort I thought of. None can give 
me that,” said the poor girl ; “ but she would teach me 
how to be a good wife to Humfrey.” 

These words were a satisfaction to Eichard, who 
had begun to feel somewhat jealous for his son’s sake, 
and to doubt whether the girl’s affection rose to the 
point of meeting the great sacrifice made for his sake, 
though truly in those days parents were not wont to 
be solicitous as to the mutual attachment between a 
betrothed pair. However, Cicely’s absolute resigna- 


566 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

tion of herself and her fate into Humfrey’s hands, 
without even a question, and with entire confidence 
and peace, was evidence enough tliat her heart was 
entirely his; nay, had been his throughout all the 
little flights of ambition now so entirely passed away, 
without apparently a thought on her part. 

It was on the Friday forenoon, a day very unlike 
their last entrance into Hull, that they again entered 
the old town, in the brightness of a crisp frost ; but 
poor Cicely could not but contrast her hopeful mood 
of November with her present overwhelming sorrow, 
where, however, there was one drop of sweetness. Her 
foster - father took her again to good Mr. Heather- 
thwayte’s, according to the previous invitation, and 
was rejoiced to see that the joyous welcome of Oil-of- 
Gladness awoke a smile ; and the little girl, being well 
trained in soberness and discretion, did not obtrude 
upon her grief. 

Stern Puritan as he was, the minister himself con- 
tained his satisfaction that the Papist woman was to 
die and never reign over England until he was out of 
hearing of the pale maiden who had — strange as it 
seemed to him — loved her enough to be almost broken- 
hearted at her death. 

Eichard saw Goatley and set him to prepare the 
Mastiff iox an immediate voyage. Her crew, somewhat 
like those of a few modern yachts, were permanently 
attached to her, and lived in the neighbourhood of the 
wharf, so that, under the personal superintendence of 
one who was as much loved and looked up to as Cap- 
tain Talbot, all was soon in a state of forwardness, and 
Gillingham made himself very useful. When dark- 
ness put a stop to the work and supper was being 
made ready, Eichard found time to explain matters to 


XLIV.1 ON THE HUMBER. 667 

Mr. Heathertliwayte, for his honourable mind would 
not permit him to ask his host unawares to perform 
an office that might possibly be construed as treason- 
able. In spite of tlie preparation which he had already 
received through Colet’s communications, the minister’s 
wonder was extreme. "Daughtef to the Queen of 
Scots, say you, sir ! Yonder modest, shamefast 
maiden, of such seemly carriage and gentle speech ?” 

Eichard smiled and said — “My good friend, had 
you seen that poor lady — to whom God be merciful — 
as I have done, you would know that what is sweetest 
in our Cicely’s outward woman is derived from her; 
for the inner graces, I cannot but trace them to mine 
own good wife.” 

Mr. Heatherthwayte seemed at first hardly to hear 
him, so overpowered was he with the notion that the 
daughter of her, whom he was in the habit of classing 
with Athaliah and Herodias, was in his house, resting 
on the innocent pillow of Oil -of -Gladness. He made 
his guest recount to him the steps by which the dis- 
covery had been made, and at last seemed to embrace 
the idea. Then he asked whether Master Talbot were 
about to carry the young lady to the protection of her 
brother in Scotland ; and when the answer was that 
it niight be poor protection even if conferred, and that 
by all accounts the Court of Scotland was by no means 
a place in which to leave a lonely damsel with no 
faithful guardian, the minister asked — 

“How then will you bestow th- maiden ?” 

“ In that, sir, I came to ask you to aid me. IMy 
son Humfrey is following on our steps, leaving Tother- 
inghay so soon as his charge there is ended ; and I ask of 
you to wed him to the maid, whom we will then take 
to Holland, when he will take service with the States.* 


568 UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. [CHAP. 

The amazement of the clergyman was redoubled, 
and he began at first to plead with Richard that a 
jierilous overleaping ambition vus leading him thus to 
mate his son with an evil, thougli a royal, race. 

At this Richard smiled and shook his head, pointing 
out that the very last thing any of them desired was that 
Cicely’s birth should be known; and tliat even if it were, 
her mother’s marriage was very questionable. It was 
no ambition, he said, that actuated his son, “ But you 
saw yourself how, nineteen 3^ears ago, the little lad 
welcomed her as his little sister come back to him 
That love hath grown up with him. When, at fifteen 
years old, he learnt that she was a nameless stranger, 
his first cry was that he would wed her and give her 
his name. Never hath his love faltered ; and even 
when this misfortune of her rank was known, and he 
lost all hope of gaining her, while her mother bade her 
renounce liim, his purpose was even still to watch 
over and guard her ; and at the end, beyond all our 
expectations, they have had her mother’s dying blessing 
and entreaty that he would take her.” 

“ Sir, do you give me your word for that ?” 

“ Yea, Master Heatherthwayte, as I am a true man. 
Mind you, worldly matters look as different to a poor 
woman who knoweth the headsman is in the house, as 
to one who hath her head on her d\ung pillow. This 
Queen had devised plans for sending our poor Cis 
abroad to her French and Lorraine kindred, with some 
of the French ladies of her train.” 

“ Heaven forbid !” broke out Heatherthwayte, in 
horror. " The rankest of Papists ” 

“ Even so, and with recommendations to give her 
in marriage to some adventurous prince whom the 
Spaniards might abet in working woe to us in her 


XLIV.] ON THE HUMBER. 569 

name. But when she saw how staunch the child is 
in believing as mine own good dame taught her, she 
saw, no doubt, that this would be mere giving her ovei 
to be persecuted and mewed in a convent.” 

“ Then tlie woman hath some bowels of mercy 
though a Papist.” 

“ She even saith that she doubteth not that such as 
live honestly and faithfully by the light that is in 
them shall be saved. So when she saw she prevailed 
nothing with the maid, she left off her endeavours. 
Moreover, my son not only saved her life, but won her 
regard by his faith and honour; and she called him 
to her, and even besought him to be her daughter’s 
husband. I came to you, reverend sir, as one who 
has known from the first that the young folk are no 
kin to one another; and as I think the peril to you 
is small, I deemed that you would do them this office. 
Otherwise, I must take her to Holland and see them 
wedded by a stranger there.” 

Mr. Heatherthwayte was somewhat touched, but he 
sat and considered, perceiving that to marry the young 
lady to a loyal Englishman was the safest way of 
hindering her from falling into the clutches of a Popish 
prince; but he still demurred, and asked how Mr. 
Talbot could talk of the mere folly of love, and for its 
sake let his eldest son and heir become a mere exile 
and fugitive, cut off, it might be, from home. 

“ For that matter, sir,” said Eichard, “ my son is 
not one to loiter about, as the lubberly heir, cumbering 
the land at home. He would, so long as I am spared 
in health and strength, be doing service by land or 
sea, and I trust that by the time he is needed at home, 
all this may be so forgotten that Cis may return safely. 
The maid hath been our child too long for us to risk 


570 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

her alone. And for such love being weak and foolish) 
surely, sir, it was the voice of One greater than you 
or I tliat bade a man leave his father and mother and 
cleave unto his wife.” 

Mr, Heatherthwayte still murmured something about 
youth ” and “ lightly undertaken,” and Master Talbot 
observed, with a smile, that when he had seen Humfrey 
he might judge as to the lightness of purpose. 

Richard meanwhile was watching somewhat anxi- 
ously for the arrival of his son, who, he had reckoned, 
would make so much more speed than was possible for 
Cis, that he might have almost overtaken them, if the 
fatal business had not been delayed longer than he 
had seen reason to anticipate. However, these last 
words had not long been out of his mouth when a man’s 
footsteps, eager, yet with a tired sound and with the 
clank of spurs, came along the paved way outside, and 
there was a knock at the door. Some one else had 
been watching; for, as the street door was opened. 
Cicely sprang forward as Humfrey held out his arms ; 
then, as she rested against his breast, he said, so that 
she alone could hear, “ Her last words to me were, 
‘ Give her my love and blessing, and tell her my joy 
is come — such joy as I never knew before.’ ” 

Then they knew the deed was done, and Richard said, 
“ God have mercy on her soul !” Nor did Mr. Heather- 
thwayte rebuke him. Indeed there was no time, for 
Humfrey exclaimed, “ She is swooning.” He gathered 
her in his arms, and carried her where they lighted 
him, laying her on Oil’s little bed, but she was not 
entirely unconscious, and rallied her senses so as to 
give him a reassuring look, not quite a smile, and yet 
wondrously sweet, even in the eyes of others. Then, 
as the lamp flashed on his figure, she sprang to hei 
feet, all else forgotten in the exclamation. 


XLIV.] ON THE HUMBER. 571 

-“0 Humfrey, thou art hurt! What is it? Sit 
thee down.” 

They then saw that his face was, indeed, very pale 
and jaded, and that his dress was muddied from head 
to foot, and in some places there were marks of blood ; 
hut as she almost pushed him down on the chest 
beside the bed, he said, in a voice hoarse and sunk, 
betraying weariness — 

“ Naught, naught, Cis ; only my beast fell with me 
going down a hill, and lamed himself, so that I had to 
lead him the last four or five miles. Moreover, this 
cut on my hand must needs break forth bleeding more 
than I knew in the dark, or I had not frighted thee by 
coming in such sorry plight;” and he in his turn gazed 
reassuringly into her eyes as she stood over him, 
anxiously examining, as if she scarce durst trust him, 
that if stiff and bruised at all, it mattered not. Then 
she begged a cup of wine for him, and sent Oil .for 
water and linen, and Humfrey had to abandon his 
hand to her, to be cleansed and bound up, neither of 
them uttering a word more than needful, as she knelt 
by the chest performing this work with skilful hands, 
though there was now and then a tremor over her 
whole frame. 

“ Now, dear maid,” said Eichard, “ thou must let 
him come with us and don some dry garments : then 
shalt thou see him again.” 

“ Best and food — he needs them,” said Cis, in a 
voice weak and tremulous, though the self-restraint of 
her princely nature strove to control it. “ Take him, 
father ; methinks I cannot hear more to-night. He will 
tell me all when we are away together. I would be alone, 
and in the dark ; I know he is come, and you are caring 
for him. That is enough, and I can still thank God.” 


572 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP 

Her face quivered, and she turned awaj ; nor did 
Humfrey dare to shake her further by another demon- 
stration, but stumbled after his father to the minister’s 
chamber, where some incongruous clerical attire had 
been provided for him, since he disdained the offer of 
supping in bed. 

Mr. Heatherthwayte was much struck with the 
undemonstrativeness of their meeting, for there was 
high esteem for austerity in the Puritan world, in con- 
trast to the utter want of self-restraint shown by the 
more secular characters. 

When Humfrey presently made his appearance with 
his father’s cloak wrapped over the minister’s clean 
shirt and nether garments, Eichard said, 

“ Son Humfrey, this good gentleman who baptized 
our Cis would fain be certain that there is no lightness 
of purpose in this thy design.” 

“ Hay, nay, Mr. Talbot,” broke in the minister, “ I 
spake ere I had seen this gentleman. From what I 
have now beheld, I have no doubts that be she who 
she may, it is a marriage made and blessed in heaven.” 

“ I thank you, sir,” said Humfrey, gravely ; “ it is 
my one hope fulfilled.” 

They spoke no more till he had eaten, for he was 
much spent, having never rested more than a couple of 
liours, and not slept at all since leaving Fotheringhay. 
He had understood by the colour of the horse left at 
Hottingham which road to take, and at the hostel at 
Hull had encountered Gillingham, who directed him on 
to Mr. Heatherthwayte’s. 

What he brought himself to tell of the last scene at 
Fotheringhay has been mostly recorded by history, and 
need not here be dwelt upon. When Bourgoin and 
Melville fell back, unable to support their mistress 


ON THE HUMBER. 


573 


XLIV.] 

along the hall to the scaffold, the Queen had said to 
him, “ Thou wilt do me this last service,” and had 
leant on his arm along the crowded hall, and had 
taken that moment to- speak those last words for 
Cicely. She had blessed James openly, and declared 
her trust that he would find salvation if he lived well 
and sincerely in the faith he had chosen. With him 
she had secretly blessed her other child. 

Humfrey was much shaken and could hardly com- 
mand his voice to answer the questions of Master 
Heatherthwayte, but he so replied to them that, one by 
one, the phrases and turns were relinquished which the 
worthy man had prepared for a Sunday’s sermon on 
“ Go see now this accursed woman and bury her, for 
she is a king’s daughter,” and he even began to con- 
sider of choosing for his text something that would 
bid liis congregation not to judge after the sight of 
their eyes, nor condemn after the hearing of their ears. 

When Humfrey had eaten and drunk, and the ruddy 
hue was returning to his cheek, Mr. Heatherthwayte 
discovered that he must speak with his churchwarden 
that night. Probably the pleasure of communicating 
the tidings that the deed was accomplished added 
force to the consideration that the father and son 
would rather be alone together, for he lighted his 
lantern with alacrity, and carried off Dust-and-Ashes 
with him. 

Then Humfrey had more to tell which brooked no 
delay. On the day after the departure of his father 
and Cicely, Will Cavendish had arrived, and Humfrey 
had been desired to demand from the prisoner an 
immediate audience for that gentleman. Mary had 
said, “ This is anent the child. Call him in, Humfrey,” 
and as Cavendish had passed the guard he had struck 


574 UNKNOWN TO HISTOEY. [CHAP 

his old comrade on the shoulder and observed, “ What 
gulls we have at Hallamshire.” 

He had come out from his conference fuming, and 
desiring to hear from Humfreywhether he were aware 
of the imposture that had been put on the Queen and 
upon them all, and to which yonder stubborn woman 
still chose to cleave — little Cis Talbot supposing her- 
self a queen’s daughter, and they all, even grave 
Master Eichard, being duped. It was too much for 
Will ! A gentleman, so nearly connected with the 
Privy Council, was not to be deceived like these simple 
soldiers and sailors, though it suited Queen Mary’s 
purposes to declare the maid to be in sooth her 
daughter, and to refuse to disown her. He supposed 
it was to embroil England for the future that she left 
such a seed of mischief. 

And old Paulett had been fool enough to let the 
girl leave the Castle, whereas Cavendish’s orders had 
•been to be as secret as possible lest the mischievous 
suspicion of the existence of such a person should 
spread, but to arrest her and bring her to London as 
soon as the execution should be over; when, as he 
said, no harm would happen to her provided she would 
give up the pretensions with which she had been 
deceived. 

“ It would have been safer for you both,” said poor 
Queen Mary to Humfrey afterwards, “ if I had denied 
her, but I could not disown my poor child, or prevent 
her from yet claiming royal rights. Moreover, I have 
learnt enough of you Talbots to know that you would 
not owe your safety to falsehood from a dying 
woman.” 

But Will’s conceit might be quite as effectual. 
He was under orders to communicate the matter to no 


XLIV.] ON THE HUMBER. 575 

one not already aware of it, and as above all things he 
desired to see the execution as the most memorable 
spectacle he was likely to behold in his life, and he 
believed Cicely to be safe at Bridgefield, he thought it 
unnecessary to take any farther steps until that should 
be over. Humfrey had listened to all with what 
countenance he might, and gave as little sign as 
possible. 

But when the tragedy had been consummated, and 
he had seen the fair head fall, and himself withdrawn 
poor little Bijou from beneath his dead mistress’s 
garment, handing him to Jean Kennedy, he had — with 
blood still curdling with horror — gone down to the 
stables, taken his horse, and ridden away. 

There would no doubt be pursuit so soon as Eichard 
and Cicely were found not to be at Bridgefield ; but 
there was a space in which to act, and Mr. Talbot at 
once said, “ The Mastiff is well-nigh ready to sail. Ye 
must be wedded to-morrow morn, and go on board 
without delay.” 

They judged it better not to speak of this to the 
poor bride in her heavy grief ; and Humfrey, having 
heard from their little hostess that Mistress Cicely lay 
quite still, and sent him her loving greeting, con- 
sented to avail himself of the hospitable minister’s own 
bed, hoping, as he confided to his father, that very 
weariness would hinder him from seeing the block, 
the axe, and the convulsed face, that had haunted him 
on the only previous time when he had tried to close 
his eyes. 

Long before day Cicely heard her father’s voice 
bidding her awake and dress herself, and handing in a 
light. The call was welcome, for it had been a night of 
strange dreams ind sadder wakenings to the sense “ it 


576 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

had come at last ” — yet the one comfort, “ Humfrey is 
near.” She dressed herself in those plain black garments 
she had assumed in London, and in due time came down 
to where her father awaited her. She was pale, silent, 
and passive, and obeyed mechanically as he made her 
take a little food. She looked about as if for some one, 
and he said, “ Humfrey will meet us anon.” Then he 
himself put on her cloak, hood, and muffler. She was 
like one in a dream, never asking where they were 
going, and thus they left the house. There was light 
from a waning moon, and by it he led her to the 
church. 

It was a strange wedding in that morning moon- 
light streaming in at the east window of that grand 
old church, and casting the shadows of the columns 
and arches on the floor, only aided by one wax light, 
which, as Mr. Heatherthwayte took care to protest, 
was not placed on the holy table out of superstition, 
but because he could not see without it. Indeed the 
table stood lengthways in the centre aisle, and would 
have been bare, even of a white cloth, had not Eichard 
begged for a Communion for the young pair to speed 
them on their perilous way, and Mr. Heatherthwayte — 
almost under protest — consented, since a sea voyage and 
warlike service in a foreign land lay before them. But, 
except that he wore no surplice, he had resigned him- 
self to Master Eichard on that most unnatural morninsr. 
and stifled his inmost sighs when he had to pronounce 
the name Bride, given, not by himself, but by some 
Eomish priest — when the bridegroom, with the hand 
wounded for Queen Mary’s sake, gave a ruby ring, most 
unmistakably coming from that same perilous quarter, 
— and above all when the pair and the father knelt 
in deep reverence. Yet their devotion was evidently 


ON THE HUMBER. 


577 


XLIV.] 

80 earnest and so heartfelt that he knew not how to 
blame it. and he could not but bless them with his 
whole heart as he walked down with them to the 
wharf. All were silent, except that Cicely once 
paused and said she wanted to speak to “Father.” 
He came to her side, and she took his arm instead of 
Ilumfrey’s. 

“ Sir,” she said ; “ it has come to me that now my 
sweet mother is left alone it would be no small joy to 
her, and of great service to our good host’s little daughter, 
if Oil-of-Gladness could take my place at home for a 
year or two.” 

“ None will do that, Cis ; but there is much that 
would be well in the notion, and I will consider of it. 
She is a maid of good conditions, and the mother is 
lonesome.” » 

His consideration resulted in his making the pro- 
posal, much startling, though greatly gratifying. Master 
Heatherthwayte, who thanked him, talked of his 
honour for that discreet and godly woman Mistress 
Susan, and said he must ponder and pray upon it, 
and would reply when Mr. Talbot returned from his 
voyage. 

At the wharf lay the Mastiff's boat in charge of 
Gervas and Gillingham. All three stepped into it to- 
gether, the most silent bride and bridegroom perhaps that 
the Humber had ever seen. Only each of the three wrung 
the hand of the good clergyman. At that moment all 
the bells in Hull broke forth with a joyous peal, which 
by the association made the bride look up with a smile. 
Her husband forced one in return ; but his father’s eyes, 
which she could not see, filled with tears. He knew 
it was in exultation ^t her mother’s death, and they 
hurried into the boat lest she should catch the purport 
2 P 


678 UNKNOWN TO HISTOK/. [CHAP 

of the shouts that were beginning to arise as the towns* 
folk awoke to the knowledge that their enemy was 
dead. 

The fires of Smithfield were in the remembrance 
of this generation. The cities of Flanders were writh- 
ing under the Spanish yoke ; “ the richest spoils of 
Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain,” were already 
mustering to reduce England to the condition of 
Antwerp or Haarlem ; and only Elizabeth’s life had 
seemed to lie between them and her who was bound 
by her religion to bring all this upon the peaceful land. 
No wonder those who knew not the tissue of cruel 
deceits and treacheries that had worked the final ruin 
of the captive, and believed her guilty of fearful crimes, 
should have burst forth in a wild tumult of joy, such 
as saddened even the Protestant soul of Mr. Heather- 
thwayte, as he turned homewards after giving his 
blessing to the mournful young girl, whom the boat 
was bearing over the muddy waters of the Hull. 

They soon had her on board, but the preparations 
were hardly yet complete, nor could the vessel make 
her way down the river until the evening tide. It 
was a bright clear day, and a seat on deck was arranged 
for the lady, where she sat with Humfrey beside her, 
holding her cloak round her, and telling her — strange 
theme for a bridal day — all he thought well to tell 
her of those last hours, when Mary had truly shown 
herself purified by her long patience, and exalted by 
the hope that her death had in it somewhat of mar- 
tyrdom. 

His father meantime superintended the work of 
the crew, being extremely anxious to lose no time, and 
to sail before night. Mr. Heatlufrthwayte’s anxiety 
brought him on board again, for he wanted to ask 


XLIV.] 


ON THE HUMBEE. 


579 


more questions about the Bridgefield doings eie begin- 
ning his ponderings and his prayers respecting his 
decision for his little daughter ; nor had he taken his 
final leave when the anchor was at length weighed, 
and the ship had passed by the strange old gables, 
timbered houses, and open lofts, that bounded the har- 
bour out from the Hull river into the Humber itself, 
wiiile both the Talbots breathed more freely ; but as 
the chill air of evening made itself felt, they persuaded 
Cicely to let her husband take her down to her 
cabin. 

It was a.t this moment, in the deepening twilight, 
that the ship was hailed, and a boat came alongside, 
and there was a summons, “In the Queen’s name,” 
and a slightly made lean figure in black came up the 
side. He was accompanied by a stout man, apparently 
a constable. There was a moment’s pause, then the 
new-comer said, “ Kinsman Talbot ” 

“ I count no kindred with betrayers, Cuthbert 
Langston,” said Eichard, drawing himself up with 
folded arms. 

“ Scorn me not, Eichard Talbot,” was the reply ; 
“ you stood my friend once when none other did so, 
and for that cause have I hindered much hurt to you 
and yours. But for me you had been in a London 
jail for these three weeks past. Nor do I come to do 
you evil now. Give up the wench, and your name 
shall never be brought forward, since the matter is to 
be private. Behold a warrant from the Council em- 
powering me to bring before them the person of Bride 
Hepburn, otherwise called Cicely Talbot.” 

“ Man of treacheries and violence,” said Mr. 
Heatherthwayte, standing forward, an imposing figure 
in his full black gown and white ruff, “ go back ! The 


580 


UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. 


[chap, 

lady is not for thy double-dealing, nor is there now 
any such person as either Bride Hepburn or Cicely 
Talbot.” 

“I cry you mercy,” sneered Langston. “I see 
how it is ! I shall have to bear your reverence like- 
wise away for a treasonable act in perfoiming the 
office of matrimony for a person of royal blood with- 
out consent of the Queen, And your reverence knows 
the penalty.” 

At that instant there rang from the forecastle a 
never-to-be-forgotten howl of triumphant hatred and 
fury, and with a spring like that of a tiger, Gillingham 
bounded upon him with a shout, “ Eemember Babing- 
ton !” and grappled with him, dragging him backwards 
to the bulwark. Eichard and the constable both tried 
to seize the fiercely struggling forms, but in vain. 
They were over the side in a moment, and there was 
a heavy splash into the muddy waters of the Humber, 
thick with the downcome of swollen rivers, thrown 
back by the flowing tide. 

Humfrey came dashing up from below, demanding 
who was overboard, and ready to leap to the rescue 
wherever any should point in the darkness, but his 
father withheld him, nor, indeed, was there sound or 
eddy to be perceived. 

“ It is the manifest judgment of God,” said Mr. 
Heatherthwayte, in a low, awe-stricken voice. 

But the constable cried aloud that a murder had • 
been done in resisting the Queen’s warrant. 

With a ready gesture the minister made Humfrey 
understand that he must keep his wife in the cabin, 
and Eichard at the same time called Mr. Heather- 
thwayte and all present to witness that, murder as it 
undoubtedly was, it had not been in resisting the 


ON THE HUMBER. 


581 


XLIV.] 

Qneen’s wairant, but in private revenge of the servant, 
Harry Gillingham, for his master Babington, whom he 
believed to have been betrayed by this gentleman. 

It appeared that the constable knew neither the 
name of the gentleman nor whom the warrant men- 
tioned. He had only been summoned in the Queen’s 
name to come on board the Mastiff to assist in secur- 
ing the person of a young gentlewoman, but who she 
was, or why she was to be arrested, the man did not 
know. He saw no lady on deck, and he was by no 
means disposed to make any search, and the presence of 
Master Heatherthwayte likewise impressed him much 
with the belief that all was right with the gentlemen. 

Of course it would have been his duty to detain 
the Mastiff for an inquiry into the matter, but the 
poor man was fextremely ill at ease in the vessel and 
among the retainers of my Lord of Shrewsbury ; and 
in point of fact, they might all have been concerned in 
a crime of much deeper dye without his venturing to 
interfere. He saw no one to arrest, the warrant was 
lost, the murderer was dead, and he was thankful 
enough to be returned to his boat with Master Eichard 
Talbot’s assurance that it was probable that no inquiry 
would be made, but that if it were, the pilot would be 
there to bear witness of his innocence, and that he 
himself should return in a month at latest with the 
Mastiff. 

Master Heatherthwayte consoled the constable 
further by saying he would return in his boat, and 
speak for him if there were any inquiry after the 
other passenger. 

“ I must speak my farewells here,” he said, '* and 
trust we shall have no coil to meet you on your 
return. Master Richard.” 


582 UNKNOWN TO HISTOllY. [CHAP. 

“ But for her,” said Humfrey, “ I could not let my 
father face it alone. When she is in safety ” 

“Tush, lad,” said his father, “such plotters as 
yonder poor wretch had become are not such choice 
prizes as to be inquired for. Men are only too glad 
to be rid of them when their foul work is done. 

“ So farewell, good Master Heatherthwayte,” added 
Humfrey, “ with thanks for this day’s work. I have 
read of good and evil geniuses or angels, be they which 
they may, haunting us for life, and striving for the 
mastery. Methinks my Cis hath found both on the 
same Humber which brought her to us.” 

“ Nay, go not forth with Pagan nor Popish follies 
on thy tongue, young man,” said Heatherthwayte, 
“ but rather pray that the blessing of the Holy One, 
the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God of thy 
father, may be with thee and thine in this strange 
land, and bring thee safely back in His own time. And 
surely He will bless the faithful.” 

And Eichard Talbot said Amen. 


TEN YEARS AFTER. 


683 


XLV.] 


CHAPTEE XLV. 

TEN YEARS AFTER. 

It was ten years later in the reign of Elizabeth, 
when James VI. was under one of liis many eclipses 
of favour, and when the united English and Dutch 
fleets had been performing gallant exploits at Cadiz and 
Tercera, that license for a few weeks’ absence was 
requested for one of the lieutenants in her Majesty’s 
guard, Master Eichard Talbot. 

“ And wherefore ?” demanded the royal lady of 
Sir Walter Ealeigh, the captain of her guard, who 
made the request. 

“ To go to the Hague to look after his brother’s 
widow and estate, so please your Majesty ; more’s the 
pity,” said Ealeigh. 

“ His brother’s widow ?” repeated the Queen. 

“Yea, madam. For it may be feared that young 
Humfrey Talbot — I know not whether your Majesty 
ever saw him — but he was my brave brother Humfrey 
Gilbert’s godson, and sailed with us to the West some 
sixteen years back. He was as gallant a sailor as ever 
trod a deck, and I never could see why he thought fit 
to take service with the States. But he did good work 
in the time of the Armada, and I saw him one of the 
foremost in the attack on Cadiz. Hay, he was one of 
those knighted by my Lord of Essex in the market- 


584 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

place. Then he sailed with my Lord of Cumberland 
for the Azores, now six months since, and hath not 
since been heard of, as his brother tells me, and there- 
fore doth Talbot request this favour of your Majesty.” 

“ Send the young man to me,” returned the 
Queen. 

Diccon, to give him his old name, was not quite so 
unsophisticated as when his father had first left him 
in London. Though a good deal shocked by wkat a 
new arrival from Holland had just told him of the 
hopelessness of ever seeing the Ark of Fm'tune and her 
captain again, he was not so overpowered with grief as 
to prevent him from being full of excitement and 
gratification at the honour of an interview with the 
Queen, and he arranged his rich scarlet and gold attire 
so as to set himself off to the best advantage, that so 
he might be pronounced “ a proper man.” 

Queen Elizabeth was now some years over sixty, 
and her nose and chin began to meet, but otherwise 
she was as well preserved as ever, and quite as alert 
and dignified. To his increased surprise, she was 
alone, and as she was becoming a little deaf, she made 
him kneel very near her chair. 

“ So, Master Talbot,” she said, “ you are the son of 
Richard Talbot of Bridgefield.” 

“ An it so please your Majesty.” 

“And you request license from us to go to the 
Hague ?” 

“ An it so please your Majesty,” repeated Diccon, 
wondering what was coming next ; and as she paused 
for him to continue — “ There are grave rumours and 
great fears for my brother’s ship — he being in the 
Dutch service — and I would fain learn the truth and 
eee what may be done for his wife.” 


TEN YEARS AFTER. 


585 


XLV.] 

"Who is his wife?” demanded the Queen, fixing 
her keen glittering eyes on him, but he replied with 
readiness. 

“ She was an orphan brought up by my father and 
mother.” 

" Young man, speak plainly. No tampering serves 
hei3. She is the wench who came hither to plead for 
the Queen of Scots.” 

"Yea, madam,” said Diccon, seeing that direct 
answers were required. 

“ Tell me truly,” continued the Queen. " On your 
duty to your Queen, is she what she called herself ?” 

"To the best of my belief she is, madam,” he 
answered. 

" Look you, sir, Cavendish brought back word that 
it was all an ingenious figment which had deceived 
your father, mother, and the maid herself — and no 
wonder, since the Queen of Scots persisted therein to 
the last.” 

“ Yea, madam, but my mother still keeps absolute 
proofs in the garments and the letter that were found 
on the child when recovered from the wreck. I had 
never known that she was not my sister till her 
journey to London; and when next I went to the 
north my mother told me the whole truth.” 

" I pray, then, how suits it with the boasted loyalty 
of your house that this brother of yours should have 
wedded the maid ?” 

" Madam ; it was not prudent, but he had never a 
thought save for her throughout his life. Her mother 
committed her to him, and holding the matter a deep and 
dead secret, he thought to do your Majesty no wrong 
by the marriage. If he erred, be merciful, madam.” 

" Pah ! foolish youth, to whom should I be merciful 


586 UNKNOWN TO HISTOKY. [CHAJ». 

since the man is dead ? No doubt he hath left half a 
score of children to be puffed up with the wind of 
their royal extraction.” 

“ Not one, madam. When last I heard they were 
still childless.” 

“ And now you are on your way to take on you 
the cheering of your sister-in-law, the widow,” said the 
Queen, and as Diccon made a gesture of assent, she 
stretched out her hand and drew him nearer. “ She 
is then alone in the world. She is my kinswoman, if 
so he she is all she calls herself. Now, Master Talbot, 
go not open-mouthed about your work, but tell this 
lady that if she can prove her kindred to me, and 
bring evidence of her birth at Lochleven, I will 
welcome her here, treat her as my cousin the Princess 
of Scotland, and, it may be, put her on her way to 
higher preferment, so she prove herself worthy thereof. 
You take me, sir ? ” 

Diccon did take in the situation. He had under- 
stood how Cavendish, partly blinded by Langston, 
partly unwilling to believe in any competitor who 
would be nearer the throne than his niece Arabella 
Stewart, and partly disconcerted by Langston’s dis- 
appearance, had made such a report to the Queen and 
the French Ambassador, that they had thought that the 
whole matter was an imposture, and had been so 
ashamed of their acquiescence as to obliterate all 
record of it. But the Queen’s mind had since recurred 
to the matter, and as in these later years of her reign 
one of her constant desires was to hinder James from 
making too sure of the succession, she was evidently 
willing to play his sister off against him. 

Nay, in the general uncertainty, dreams came over 
Diccon of possible royal honours to Queen Bridget; 


XLV.] TEN YEARS AFTER. 587 

and then what glories would be reflected on the house 
of Talbot ! His father and mother were too old, no 
doubt, to bask in the sunshine of the Court, and Ned — 
pity that he was a clergyman, and had done so dull a 
thing as marry that little pupil of his mother’s, Lsetitia, 
as he had rendered her Puritan name. But he might be 
made a bishop, and his mother’s scholar would always 
become any station. And for Diccon himself — assur- 
edly the Mastiff race would rejoice in a new coronet ! 

Seven weeks later, Diccon was back again, and was 
once more summoned to the Queen’s apartment. He 
looked crestfallen, and she began, — 

“ Well, sir ? Have you brought the lady V* 

“ Not so, an ’t please your Majesty.” 

“And wherefore? Fears she to come, or has she 
sent no message nor letter ?” 

“ She sends her deep and humble thanks, madam, for 

the honour your Majesty intended her, but she ” 

“ How now ? Is she too great a fool to accept of 
it?” 

“Yea, madam. She prays your Grace to leave her 
in her obscurity at the Hague.” 

Elizabeth made a sound of utter amazement and 
incredulity, and then said, “ This is new madness ! 
Come, young man, tell me all ! This is as good and 
new as ever was play. Let me hear. What like is 
she ? And what is her house to be preferred to mine ?” 
Diccon saw his cue, and began — 

“Her house, madam, is one of those tall Dutch 
mansions with high roof, and many small windows 
therein, with a stoop or broad flight of steps below, on 
the banks of a broad and pleasant canal, shaded with 
fine elm-trees. There I found her on the stoop, in the 
shade, with two or three children round her; for she 


588 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. [CHAP. 

is a mother to all the English orphans there, and they 
are but too many. They bring them to her as a matter 
of course when their parents die, and she keeps them 
till their kindred in England claim them. Madam, 
her queenliness of port hath gained on her. Had she 
come, she would not have shamed your Majesty ; and 
it seems that, none knowing her true birth, she is yet 
well-nigh a princess among the many wives of officers 
and merchants who dwell at the Hague, and doubly so 
among the men, to whom she and her husband have 
never failed to do a kindness. Well, madam, I weary 
you. She greeted me as the tender sister she has ever 
been, hut she would not brook to hear of fears or com- 
passion for my brother. She would listen to no word of 
doubt that he was safe, but kept the whole household in 
perfect readiness for him to come. At last I spake 
your Majesty’s gracious message ; and, madam, pardon 
me, but all I got was a sound rating, that I should 
think any hope of royal splendour or preferment should 
draw her from waiting for Humfrey. Ay, she knew 
he would come ! And if not, she would never be 
more than his faithful widow. Had he not given up 
all for her ? Should she fail in patience because his 
ship tarried awhile ? No ; he should find her ready 
— in his home that he had made for her.” 

“ Why, this is as good as the Globe Theatre !” cried 
the Queen, but with a tear glittering in her eye. 

“Your Majesty would have said so truly,” said 
Diccon ; “ for as I sat at evening, striving hard to 
make her give over these fantastic notions and consult 
her true interest, behold she gave a cry — "Tis his 
foot !’ Yea, and verily there was Humfrey, brown as 
a berry, having been so far with his mate as to the 
very mouth of the Kiver Plate. He had, indeed, lost 


TEN YEARS AFTER. 


589 


XLV.] 

his Ark of Fortune, but he has come home with 
a carrack that quadruples her burtlien, and with a 
thousand bars of silver in her hold. And then, 
madam, the joy, the kisses, the embraces, and even 
more — the look of perfect content, and peace, and 
trust, were enough to make a bachelor long for a 
wife.” 

‘'Long to be a fool !” broke out the Queen sharply. 

Look you, lad : there may be such couples as this 
Humfrey and — what call you her? — here and there.” 

“ My father and mother are such.” 

“ Yea, saucy cockerel as you are ; but for one 
such, there are a hundred others who fret the yoke, 
and long to be free ! Ay, and this brother of tliine, 
what hath he got with this wife of his but banishment 
and dread of his own land ?” 

“ Even so, madam ; but they still count all they 
either could have had or hoped for, nought in com- 
parison with their love to one another.” 

“After ten years ! Ha ! They are no subjects for 
this real world of ours ; are they not rather swains in 
my poor Philip Sidney’s Arcadia ? No, no ; ’twere 
pity to meddle with them. Leave them to their Dutch 
household and their carracks. Let them keep their 
own secret ; I’ll meddle in the matter no more.” 

And so, though after Elizabeth’s death and James’s 
a(;cession. Sir Humfrey and Lady Talbot gladdened the 
eyes of the loving and venerable pair at Bridgefield, 
the Princess Bride of Scotland still remained in happy 
ol^scurity, " Unknown to History.” 


THE END. 




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